


by the way, didn't I break your heart?

by rottingflower



Series: six thousand twenty-three years and counting (or: the shared history of an angel and a demon) [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Historical, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I've tried to be as historically accurate as I could, Kidnapping, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pre-Slash, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Spies & Secret Agents, World War II, although crowley really doesn't want to think of it as pining, crowley is actually a somewhat decent spy, f r a t e r n i s i n g, holy water angst, the word fraternisation is haunting crowley's dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28556370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rottingflower/pseuds/rottingflower
Summary: Crowley is trying his hand at being a spy during the Second World War. Forgetting the angel he hasn't seen in almost eighty years and trying to work around the orders from Hell is almost a full-time job by itself, though. Especially since Aziraphale isn't very good at keeping himself out of trouble.(This series is set in a connected and canon-compliant universe, but all works can be read as a stand-alone.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: six thousand twenty-three years and counting (or: the shared history of an angel and a demon) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092272
Comments: 29
Kudos: 60





	1. 1933-1941

**Author's Note:**

> By the way, didn't I break your heart?  
> Please excuse me, I never meant to break your heart  
> So sorry, I never meant to break your heart  
> But you broke mine
> 
> marillion // _kayleigh_

January 31st, 1933

Crowley has a newspaper in hand, newly bought from a fresh-faced young boy in the street. He’s shouting himself hoarse, waving the remaining few of his stack in the air. “Latest paper!” the boy, who can’t be any more than twelve years old by Crowley’s best estimation, is yelling, “latest paper, latest paper, get the latest news, latest paper -”

Latest paper latest paper, the words all run together. Crowley turns away, ignoring the way his fingers stain black as he runs them over the paper. The headline of the paper yells at him, similarly to the boy, black against white, a threat for all to see.

HITLER FORMS HIS FIRST GOVERNMENT

He bites his lip in thought. He doesn’t need to be a demon to know that the storm brewing in Germany won’t be contained for long. All of Europe is concerned, although some still believe that horrors of the past can’t be repeated. Although some still believe that no war will come of it, that they’ve learnt from what happened only two decades earlier, their entire world view shattered and reeling -

Crowley had only woken up in 1917, and had only lived through half of the World War. Hell had still sent him a commendation for it, though. Only justifies his thoughts that they aren’t really paying attention when they’re not giving him direct assignments. He’s been sleeping since 1862, and Hell hadn’t even noticed.

London is different, now - all of humankind is different. There’d been a switch, after that first war, and Crowley now wishes he’d enjoyed the nineteenth century a bit more. Sure, it had its own issues, but what century doesn’t? The war had shaken all of Europe to its core, to its very beliefs, in a way that few things ever had. Crowley would know - he’s seen it happen. He’s seen it, before, two or three times in his lifetime. In almost six thousand years.

And, stupid foolish idiotic morons of humans - they’re doing it all again. He’s giving it a few years for war to break out - if they’re lucky, ten more, but probably sooner. The world is speeding up, technology advancing at a rate it never has before, and it seems like humankind is hellbent on changing their entire world in a century. 

There’s not going to be a new century if they keep going like this, though. Crowley shakes his head, still standing in the middle of the street with his paper. People are pushing past him, always concerned about their own daily lives rather than the inevitability of war. 

He remembers waking up, learning of what was going on. He remembers what his first thought had been, upon waking. The quick panic that’d settled into him until he learnt that Hell wasn’t responsible, not really. 

If there’s another war coming - well, this time he’s not sleeping, is he? He can make sure it ends quickly. Crowley starts walking and lets his newspaper drift to the ground. A bit of littering never hurt a demon’s reputation, and the pages are ripped as people walk over the news, walk all over HITLER FORMS HIS FIRST GOVERNMENT. 

He grins, and wonders how much of a spy network England truly has.

~*~*~*~

September 2nd, 1939

One of the largest advantages to being part of England’s Secret Service, Crowley has decided, is that he’d really, really, _really_ didn’t want to get drafted.

For God and country, it’s all nice and well, of course, for those who need that type of reassurance. In Crowley’s book - well, he’s not going to do anything for _God_ , is he now, and he’s not really English, although his passport may state otherwise. His passport also says he was born on 21 October 1898, and that’s off by about five thousand and nine hundred years, too, and that’s not even counting whatever time he had before Earth was created. 

So Crowley’s not going to fight for England in that way, and he’s glad. It’s bad enough to see it all from a distance, but he’s been to wars himself before. He’s heard of the horrors of the first war; he’s not eager to get discorporated by a lucky bullet or get felled by something even worse. He can fight while being comfortable in London, keeping close to his apartment and his Bentley and Aziraph - _no._ Better not go down that route.

Another advantage to not being near the slaughtering is that he can do far more with his nice colleagues than he’d ever be able to do in the field, with wild-eyed, dying soldiers. He is with Section D now, and the entire reason for their existence is to spy, get information, and spread misinformation. It’s the kind of chaos Crowley likes to sow, really, and he has always preferred to work his miracles from higher up, which is of course the only reason he doesn’t want to be shipped to Germany or France. 

Besides - he’s seen enough people die miserably in his lifetime. The fourteenth century was rather enough for him, in that regard. It’s not the most important reason, of course. The main reason is just that Crowley’s very comfortable in London.

St Ermin’s Hotel could be far more uncomfortable, like Hell, for example, although it’s a little crowded. There’s a war at hand, and Crowley’s in a position where he can - not _solve_ it, really, but maybe make a bit of a difference anyway, so all in all things could be worse. Although, with the way his humanly colleagues are now buzzing, something’s changed.

“Anthony!” One of the humans comes to stand near him, hand on his desk as he leans closer to Crowley. His name is Henry Worthen, and somehow he’s fancied himself something like Crowley’s friend, in the two years they’ve been working together. “Did you hear?”

“I assume I’m about to,” Crowley says nonchalantly. There’s a lot of buzz going around, and Crowley’s been working around the clock. He still has some smaller assignments for Hell going on, and apart from that, well. Germany invaded Poland, a day earlier. There’s more than plenty for him to do, and he’s been in the office since before most people were awake.

Worthen grins. “Chamberlain’s given Hitler an ultimatum. If he doesn’t take it, we’re at war.”

“Nothing to smile about,” Crowley mutters, and rubs his eyes underneath his glasses. “He’s never going to take it, the man. He’s bloody insane, is what he is.”

“Means we can shoot him,” Worthen says.

“Yeah, or they’ll bomb us,” Crowley says. “Either way, it’s going to be bloody.”

“It already is,” Worthen says, and his smile turns into something softer, something that’s not about humour but rather survival by faking humour. The man’s about the age that he thinks Crowley to be, and generally his good mood is unbeatable. Even in the face of war, he manages to smile and look at the bright side. Unfortunately, Crowley doesn’t think they’ll have a great many bright sides in the foreseeable future. 

“Yeah,” Crowley says. “Wager it’s going to be a lot more work for us, anyway.”

“Section D always survives,” Worthen says, clasping Crowley on the back. “Look bright, Anthony! This is what you’re good at. I’ve heard rumours that Laurence Grand is thinking of promoting some people, and I’ve heard your name buzzing around. Anthony J. Crowley, at the top of the chain.”

“Splendid,” Crowley drawls. “Rather be a ground agent, you know. Fancy I’m rather good at _tempting_ people to give me what I want. Although you could find me ruining Germany’s communications any day, if I could.”

Worthen rolls his eyes at him. “You’ve been a ground agent for years,” he says. “How long have you been here, now?”

“Oh, about six thousand years,” Crowley says.

“Feels like that, sometimes,” Worthen says, laughing. “Anyway, I don’t think you’ll have to wait long, my friend. There’s going to be enough clandestine operations going on that we won’t be able to do all of them. Heard that the men from Military Intelligence are going to be focusing on uniformed troops, while we can keep the secrecy going. More of a division of tasks, now that the war’s going to usurp all our time.”

“Can’t imagine the missus will be glad about that,” Crowley says, and rises. There’s a stack of paper on his desk, and while people hurry by, it becomes apparent that he’s only going to get more. 

“She thinks they’re going to take the deal,” Worthen says, following him around. He does that sometimes. Crowley doesn’t mind; humans tend to stay away from him, something in their basic nature screaming that coming near Crowley is usually a bad idea. Otherwise, Crowley’s gotten very good at staring menacingly with glasses on, and that’ll scare away the rest. Worthen’s not very good at picking up these cues, though, and with his sincere belief that Crowley is something of a similarly-minded fellow in Section D, he’s just been befriending him instead.

Crowley would be amused if he also didn’t feel a bit pathetic for letting Worthen try it. He’s not had a friend in almost eighty years.

Somewhere in his mind, a very prim voice says _we were fraternising, that’s all_ , and he tries to banish it.

“She’s mad, that woman of yours,” Crowley tells Worthen. His wife Anne is - well, human, mostly, with all her little sins, but she has plenty of good going for her, too. Kind-hearted, mostly, if a bit gullible. Not the kind of woman who should be living in war times, really. Crowley has met her once or twice, introduced as Worthen’s colleague. Anne is convinced they’re regular police.

Henry Worthen smiles, like a man who knows he’s in love with someone a little bit hopeless. “In the best of ways,” he agrees. “We’ll see in twenty-four hours, I suppose. If there’s still a bit of good left in Germany.”

Plenty of good in Germany. Crowley’s pretty sure that Hitler is going to be taking the elevator down, once this is all over, though. There’s just some people that can’t do good, and Hitler’s going to be dragging a lot of normal humans down with him. That’s the sad part about it, really.

He’d had this argument with Aziraphale before, but that was before the world had seen these wars. He remembers arguing that not everyone got the same chances. That God didn’t deal fairly with who went to Hell and who went to Heaven. That everything depends on context. Aziraphale had called it ‘ineffable’, he remembers, and offered him more wine.

On a screen in the corner of the room, there’s some footage of the invasion of Poland. There’s no sound, but Crowley doesn’t need it. War always sounds the same, although he imagines there might be a little more metallic clanking involved, now. Still screaming, though. Humanity’s a noisy bunch, and who could blame them? Everyone likes to think they’ll be heard, without failing to realize there’s no one Up There who listens.

“I doubt it,” Crowley says quietly. “I think everyone’s going to be robbed of whatever bit of good’s left in this world.”

Worthen sobers, and Crowley almost wishes all of them could still hope as quietly as Henry Worthen and his wife did.

~*~*~*~

January 27th, 1940

“We’re still rather getting used to it,” Anne Worthen tells Anthony Crowley. “Rationing is one of those things, you know - I understand why we do it, but it’s such a thing to get your head around! My Henry’s gone day and night, and I wish I could just feed him properly. And you too, Mr Crowley, really, you’re too thin. You need your strength, sir!”

Crowley has never known how to deal with chatty people. Well, he knows how to deal with _one_ chatty person, but that’s neither here nor there. Chatty _women_ , then, maybe, because the men in his general area tend to be rather rough and short. Their job doesn’t leave them with a lot of time for mindless socializing and asking about domestic life, really. 

Worthen rubs his hands awkwardly as he leads Crowley further into his home. Crowley wouldn’t be here, but Worthen had insisted, and really, he isn’t going to use his own rations anyway. Might as well make sure Worthen gets a little something to eat, since he’s going to be working with him. He needs his colleague at full strength, preferably.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he mumbles vaguely into Anne’s direction. “Erm. Lovely home.”

“Thank you,” Worthen says. “Anne, don’t complain about the rationing to Anthony. It’s not too bad, you think? We’ve only been doing this a few weeks. The situation will likely get even worse the longer the war goes on.”

The first one lasted - what was it? Four years? Crowley only lived through two of them, but that’d been enough to last him for quite a while. He wonders how long he’s in for it during this one, especially now he’s in Section D. Life isn’t necessarily more exciting, as a spy, but he has his fingers in some pies, so to speak, ready to move if he needs to. 

“Sugar and butter,” Anne says reprovingly. “You _love_ butter. How I’m going to make you a birthday cake with this rationing will be anyone’s guess. Well, now, come on. I’ve made some lasagna! Do you like lasagna, Mr Crowley? I asked Henry, but he didn’t know.”

“Lasagna’s fine,” says Crowley, who doesn’t eat unless Aziraphale nags him for long enough, and even then only tries one bite before giving his angel the rest of his portion. There’s a nagging bit of guilt when he thinks about these people making food for him that he doesn’t need. 

There’s a war on. It steals whatever appetite Crowley might have had to hear the numbers of people dying in Poland, dying in Germany, dying. The weapons mobilised, the preparations made. Section D has already been on high alert for two months, and there’s talk about a new section of some sort. Crowley’s not supposed to know, of course, but he’s keeping his eyes out. He won’t be surprised if Section D is made into something new entirely. They’re overworked and exhausted; some missions have been complete flops. Crowley’s still cursing whoever was in charge of the Venlo incident for sheer incompetence.

Anne pulls out a chair for him. They eat in their living room; there’s a telly, which is rather unusual but not that surprising. 

“So how are you doing, Mr Crowley?” Anne asks in the middle of the meal. Crowley’s trying to not pick at his food, but his plate is definitely not going to be empty at the end of the evening. Why did he agree to this, again?

“Fine,” he says quickly. “The food’s lovely.” 

It’s not. Crowley has been spoiled by the many little peculiar restaurants Aziraphale used to take him to. Aziraphale has a knack for finding the cooks that create the most wonderful dishes, the best blends of flavours. He’s been to the restaurant that makes London’s best risotto before the rest of London caught on, and Aziraphale was moaning about a tiramisu in a restaurant that was later labelled the world’s best. He can just sniff out these things, and as a result, the only things Crowley has ever eaten is top of the game. He used to joke about that, and Aziraphale always looked away, ridiculously pleased that Crowley liked the places he took him. He always took pride in that, and Crowley enjoyed seeing it, even if the angel would’ve denied it until the end of time.

Which is to say that Anne’s lasagna is fine, but there are many, many reasons that Crowley doesn’t feel much of a reason to finish.

“Anthony’s not a big eater,” Worthen says, waving away Anne’s concerned look. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him more than take two bites of something.”

Crowley takes the way out. “S’ true,” he says nonchalantly, and leans back in his chair now that he doesn’t have to pretend to eat anymore. “It really is a lovely meal, Anne. Sorry for not informing you about my lack of eating habits.”

“That can’t be healthy,” Anne scolds him, but she does rise to take the plates back to the kitchen. “Someone ought to make you eat, Anthony Crowley.”

“Don’t bother trying,” Worthen tells her, stretching her neck to see her disappear. “Really, Anthony. Sometimes I wonder how you’re even _alive_. These past few days, I’m exhausted, and you’re still running around like you’re owning the place. Have you been home this week?”

“I’ve been home,” Crowley says. “I was home Tuesday. Hughes made me.”

Anne comes back, brushing her hands against her skirt and tutting at him. “It’s not right, that they’re making you work like this,” she says. “War or no, officers need to be home, too. It’s not like you can even really do anything!”

“Tactics,” Crowley and Worthen say at the same time.

“Nonetheless,” Anne continues, “the war’s not going to be affected just because you go home and have a good night’s sleep. At least I can make Henry promise to come home, emergency or not. You don’t have a wife, do you, Mr Crowley?”

“I told you not to bring it up, Anne,” Worthen says tiredly. 

_Do you know what trouble I’d be in if - if they knew I’d been - fraternising?_ Crowley tries not to show anything outward, just adjusts his tie. 

“I’m not trying to pry, Mr Crowley,” Anne mutters. “Henry’s just been talking about you, and you’ve been working together, and I appreciate that you’re - I know you’re looking out for him in some ways, and I know we don’t know each other very well, but I’m just concerned about you. With the war going on, it’s not easy to be alone.”

Crowley has seen a great many wars, and for most he’d been alone, although not always. The first one had been the worst, mostly, when he’d still felt his wings burning and desperation clawing at him. Since then, he’s always had someone to go and visit if the humans got a little too cruel. Not anymore, though.

“On the contrary,” he says. “It only makes it much easier if you don’t have anything to worry about.” _I have lots of other people to fraternize with, angel_. 

“Try to tell yourself that,” Worthen says.

Crowley makes a noise. “Me?” he says. “How dare you insinuate I have _feelings_.”

Worthen laughs. If Crowley had felt a little more demonic, he’d have miracled a creak in their stairs or something equally pettish. As it is, he lets Worthen laugh at him, lets Anne fuss him into at least eating a little bit of pudding for dessert, and leaves for home feeling like he can live like this.

~*~*~*~

June 12th, 1940

Crowley doesn’t think he’s been to France since - since - was it the French Revolution? Must’ve been.

Last time he was in France, he’d had some crêpes. He’d eaten two of them, almost feeling hungry with the power of the miracles he’d performed. Throwing oneself from London to Paris in a matter of minutes isn’t necessarily easy, but he’d known Aziraphale was in trouble.

Has he ever been in France without Aziraphale? He doesn’t recall.

There’s some drab in front of him now that’s not crêpes, but it’s the best the war has to offer him. Surely there’s some higher-ups eating steak and boiled potatoes and whatever else the humans like eating these days, but Crowley doesn’t mind. Although he could do without the smell.

“Eat, Monsieur Durand,” the Nazi officer, Kettler, says. “We can discuss business after.”

The German is a bit of a switch for Crowley, who’s lived in England for the better part of five centuries, now. Angels and demons pick up languages easily - kind of necessary, for what they do. The Fall of Babel had made the situation a bit more difficult, because it takes a few days to really get back into a language, but Crowley has been practising his German and French exactly for this reason.

He takes a bite of whatever the drab in front of him is. It’s bland and tasteless. Why is food such a big deal with the humans? Crowley wishes they could just get along with it without having to force-feed him in some misguided attempt to make him trust them.

“ _Sehr gut_ ,” he says, laying on a bit of a French accent. “Do you want some, Herr Kettler? I’ve had a large lunch.”

He rests his arms on the table, leaning forward. They’re meeting in a clandestine backroom, because of course they are. Crowley has been to a dozen hotels and tiny back rooms in unused theatres. Currently, he’s in a cellar of an abandoned home in Compiègne. He doesn’t try to think of why it is abandoned, but he suspects it might’ve something to do with their religion.

“No,” Kettler says, looking mildly disgusted. “But if you’re not going to eat, Monsieur Durand, we should occupy our time with other things. Your military collapsed. Your people are fleeing. What ports are they fleeing from?”

“Now, now,” Crowley says, and flashes a smile. Kettler stills a bit, light blue eyes searching him. “I’m rather high up in the chains in our precious _général d’armée_ , but if you want that kind of information, I want something back, Herr Kettler. I wouldn’t want you to kill my countrymen on a whim.”

“Double-dealing spy,” Kettler mutters. 

“I need to report something back,” Crowley says, and this time, he makes sure he’s not threatening as much as he’s drawing Kettler in. He taps his fingers on the table, hearing the fork rattle against the plate, full of uneaten drab. “Germany must be ecstatic - you conquered France in six weeks. I’m aligning with you because I know you’ll _win_ , Herr Kettler. But until then, if you want me to be of use, this will be a mutually beneficial relationship.”

“What do you want, then?” Kettler asks. “Victory is around the corner. France is ours, and Belgium and the Netherlands are under Germany’s rule, too. England will soon fall. Italy is our ally, now, and the rest will follow.”

This is the difficult part. Crowley would prefer some information, but since he’s pretending to have defected, Kettler would be suspicious. He also doesn’t really want to give the Nazis any insight in Operation _Ariel_ , because he’d rather get the people evacuated instead of killed by Germany. 

“My wife,” he says. “I want to know where she’ll be safe. She refuses to leave France, _mon ange_ , stubborn as she is. I just need her to be safe.”

“Ah,” Kettler says, and grins. He’s missing a part of one tooth, Crowley notices absent-mindedly, and it makes him look older. “A man in love. We can protect your wife, Monsieur Durand. Both of you will receive amnesty in Germany when we have won the war.”

“I want safety now,” Crowley says. “You’ve got France, but England and France haven’t given up yet. They’ll strike back -”

“Yes,” Kettler drawls. “I’d rather hear about that.”

Crowley hesitates, making himself duck back in his chair a bit. Kettler needs to think he is winning, here; needs to believe that Crowley is concerned, that he’ll blurt out anything. The longer he’ll be silent, the more Kettler will believe that he can draw something out of Crowley, and the more he himself might inevitably give away.

“Then we have a deal?” he asks, uncertainty marking his voice. “Protect my wife, and I’ll give you information. Weygand, he’ll - I’m not sure.”

Kettler’s eyes are greedy with the hint of information. “Weygand won’t be able to stop anything,” he says, “or any of the other French. You’re defeated.”

“ _Oui_ ,” Crowley says, and tries not to smile. He’s got an in.

~*~*~*~

August 1st, 1940

Most of Crowley’s life is mostly spent hanging around 64 Baker Street when he returns from France. Section D has vanished while he was abroad, and a new organisation has taken its place. Crowley is now a proud member of the Special Operations Executive, although he doesn’t think his daytime job has really changed all that much.

People pat him on the back his first day back, congratulating him for a moment or two before returning back to their own things. Soon enough, he’s used again to the English air. German and French are pushed back in his mind again, and if he doesn’t have to hear either of the languages again anytime soon it’ll be too early.

He likes playing mind games with the Nazi, but it does get exhausting.

Johnson and Ackland are whispering furiously to each other when he’s been back for four days. He knows Ackland from the day he first joined, but Johnson is a later addition. He doesn’t know much about them except that they’re friends, but they send him odd glances now.

“Hey, Crowley,” Ackland says, joining him just when he’s seated himself. “We heard you did a bloody good job across the sea. Got quite a standing with the Germans, did you?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “What’s it?”

“You’re an odd one,” Johnson says. “Didn’t know you spoke both German and French. What’d you need that for, anyway? Bloody hate German. It’s all full of long words and weird vowels.”

“Get off his back, Johnson,” a new voice says, and Worthen casually sits himself on Crowley’s desk.

“Didn’t realise we were having a party here,” Crowley bites. “What are all of you, twelve? Stop bothering me.”

Johnson and Ackland share a look, but trod back to their own desks. Telephones are ringing all over the place, codes stacking up, information to win a war being assembled. There are secret messages to disassemble, spies to put on cases, information to be assessed. Crowley never wanted that type of job in Hell, and he’s glad he’s not doing it right now.

Worthen stays on top of his desk, smiling wryly at him. His suit doesn’t fit him as well as it used to, and his tie is a little undone, but he seems fine, mostly. Tired, his mousey brown hair mussed. 

“Glad to see you,” Worthen says. “Had fun in France, then? Stirring up some trouble?”

“I’m always stirring up trouble, France or not,” Crowley says. “Didn’t see you for a few days, there. On a mission?”

“Nothing important,” Worthen shrugs, and puts his hands in his coat as he moves off of Crowley’s desk to stand beside him instead. “Don’t mind Johnson and Ackland, by the way. You’ve made a bit of a name for yourself, is the truth.”

“So?” Crowley says, annoyed, and puts his feet on his desk. He thinks that’s a properly demonic thing to do, and he’s got an image to maintain, besides. He takes a cigarette for good measure, lighting it up slowly. “S’ not my fault the Germans are ready to trust anyone who speaks a bit of French and two brain cells.”

“Well, rumours go with that kind of fame,” Worthen says, and shakes his head at him. “The Germans just loved you, apparently. Says you charmed their socks off. Ackland and Johnson have a bet going on about whether you slept with some of them. They’ve got about ten others in on the bet.”

Crowley sends him a sharp look and takes a deep drag of his cigarette. “You’re really all twelve years old,” he says. “Don’t tell me you’re in on it.”

“Course not,” Worthen says, almost offended. Crowley’s about seventy percent sure that Worthen definitely had betted on something. “I’ve been working, you know. Hughes gave me an important one. Dealing with some German spies running around in London. They’ve been killing some people, but it’s all been rather hush-hush. Have a hard time tracking them down. Since you’re back now, I thought you might want in on it.”

For good measure, he miracles Ackland and Johnson. They certainly deserve having their zipper down any time they’re making a romantic advance. That’s what you get for betting on someone’s love life.

“Hah,” Crowley says. “Hard pass. Do your own job, man.”

“Rather you do it for me. The famous Anthony J. Crowley on my case. I might swoon.”

“Sod off.”

~*~*~*~

October 22nd, 1940

Crowley didn’t expect to find Henry Worthen at his door in Kensington, but he doesn’t really have a choice about letting them in. The air raid sirens are loud as ever, although both of them are really rather used to it by now. The Blitz has been going on for over a month, and Crowley’s almost more annoyed by the noise than he is by the damage done to the city he’s called his own for centuries.

He’s pretty pissed about that, too. All in all, it still _could_ be worse, though. The Germans don’t have a great strategy, the way they’re going about it. And Crowley mostly knows where the bombs are going to land in advance.

He’s given his colleague a glass of wine. Worthen stares at it as if he’s never seen red wine before.

“What?” Crowley asks, taking a sip of his own. “Expected something different?”

“You don’t have beer?” Worthen asks. 

Crowley snorts and puts the bottle of wine on his table. “It’s wine or water, Worthen,” he says. “Very biblical of me, don’t you think? I can offer you a cigarette, but that’s about it. Not much food to be found in the Crowley residence.”

“I don’t know why I expected anything different,” Worthen sighs. 

“Why’re you here?” Crowley says, and takes another sip of his wine. It’s odd, having someone opposite him. He’s lived in Kensington for quite some time, but he never has had visitors. There’s been some neighbours trying to be friendly, but Crowley has always quickly managed to dissuade them from that notion. 

Worthen shrugs and sits down on the sofa, almost drowning in it. His thumb plays with the rim of his glass, the wine sloshing inside. There’s almost a bit of a waste in the way the man doesn’t even pay attention to the bottle. Crowley got it in 1927, and it’s rather good. 

“Anne’s gone to some of her family,” he says. “The Blitz, she’s having difficulty coping. A lot of stress, you know. Someone that she knew died and she’s been jumping at every sound since then.”

“Ah,” Crowley says, and downs his wine. If he’s dealing with this, he needs to get sloshed. “You’re having a domestic.”

“No,” Worthen says while Crowley fills up his own glass again. “I just. I didn’t say anything, really. She wasn’t listening to what I really said. Didn’t want to sit in a house by myself, after. I thought I’d go mad, just listening to the air raid sirens.”

“You get used to it,” Crowley says.

Worthen tilts his head. “Do you, really?”

“That’s it.” Crowley stands up to rummage in his kitchen. There’s still a few good bottles of wine. He hasn’t had much occasion to drink, but when he has, he’s drunk a lot. “Drink up, Worthen. You’re no use to me sober.”

“We’ve got work in the morning,” Worthen says. 

Crowley smiles. “Maybe a bomb’ll fall on it,” he says. “Who knows, right? For now - drink. Yes, good, like that. Tomorrow’s another concern. Let me _tempt_ you.”

Worthen doesn’t take long to convince. Crowley would like to say it’s because of his own good taste in wine, but from what he knows of Worthen, the man has no inclination of the price of the stuff he’s drinking. That’s the way that Crowley prefers it, really; he’d rather they just treat it as bottles he got for a cheap penny, because that way, they’ll go through it faster.

It’s surprisingly fun, really. Crowley’s last night drinking with someone was in - when was it? He doesn’t even remember. Nineteenth century, somewhere before they fell out. Aziraphale had gotten a new copy of some book or another and seen fit to celebrate. He’d invited Crowley, because they already had plans for that day anyway. Crowley thinks they’d discussed the finer points of some ballet or another, and Aziraphale had ended up on the floor by the end of it. It’d been fun and it’d been easy.

“She - she should’ve stayed,” Worthen hiccups, almost completely supine on Crowley’s sofa, when the air raid sirens have already stopped. It’s a clear night, with the stars mostly visible. Something smokes on London’s horizon, and Crowley laughs as he looks out of the window, a few feet away from the couch.

“They don’t _stay_ ,” he points out, blinking hard as he spills some wine on his jacket. He blows on it, and it disappears. Worthen is too far gone to notice, and Crowley sniffs. “S’ what they do, isssn’t it? They go on about their - their, _sides_ , and boom, they’re gone.”

“Families are hard,” Worthen complains loudly. “They didn’t want her to marry me, you know, but what could we say? We’re happy, and they shouldn’t - shouldn’t push her _against_ me. That’s unfair! It’s not their say!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley mutters, and falls down onto the couch, pushing away Worthen’s legs forcefully. “I know. Fraternising. D’you know what he said? _Fraternissssing!_ As if I’ve ever - I’ve only ever asked him for _one_ thing, only _one_ , and he goes, ‘I don’t need you’, as if - as if, as if I need _him!_ I don’t, but he needs me, but he won’t - ugh. Stupid _angel_. Who does he think got him out in Paris, huh? Moron that he is. _Stupid angel._ ”

Worthen stares at him, looking far less drunk than he did before. Crowley takes another sip of wine, looking back, and then replaying what he just said. With a shudder, he drops his wine.

“You’re in love,” Worthen says slowly, sitting up more clearly, “you’re in _love_. With a man. That’s why you never talk about it.”

Shit. This is why he shouldn’t get drunk with humans, and especially not humans who will very much frown upon something between two men. So backwards, sometimes, even if Crowley’s not even necessarily a man. Or Aziraphale, but he bets it’s going to be a little while before humanity starts addressing the whole gender-idea.

“Don’t,” he says, and curses some more at himself mentally. If he doesn’t play this right, everything he’s worked for could be gone in the morning. He’ll have to start all from scratch. “Whatever you heard, it’s not what you think.”

“Who is it?” Worthen says, still staring at him. 

“Does it _matter?_ ” Crowley snarls, very aware he should be nicer if he doesn’t want Worthen to make a big deal out of it. But he doesn’t talk about Aziraphale, anymore, tries not to even think about Aziraphale. There’s not even anything going on. There never has, and still Crowley’s afraid. 

Worthen looks at him. “I’m not going to turn you in,” he says. “I’ve known - men like you. It’s not - I couldn’t. You’re a good man, Anthony. You’ve just got so many secrets.”

“I don’t,” Crowley says.

Worthen laughs at that. “Your sunglasses and your mysterious eye condition,” he says. “The way you never talk about your personal life. I still don’t know what that J stands for, in your name. Why you know French and German well enough to pass as a native. Why you barely ever eat. I’ve taken you to meet my wife, Anthony. I’ve known you for years. I’m your friend, I’d like to think. Your only friend, it always seems. And you need to talk about - him. Whoever he is.”

“I can’t,” Crowley stresses now. “Just. Go away, won’t you?”

“Anthony -” Worthen starts.

“Go. _Away,_ ” Crowley shouts, and lets a bit of his demonic essence creep into it. Summons the tiniest bit of his power, the darkness of his will. Worthen goes very, very still, and Crowley lets it seep away. Worthen puts his glass of wine, emptied by now, on the table.

“Okay,” he says, and stands up. Suddenly, the absence of the air raid sirens feels off. It’s too quiet in London, in his apartment. Crowley’s never been so close to telling a human about Aziraphale, but what good will it do? Aziraphale had made himself very, very clear.

Worthen leaves, and Crowley sags back on his sofa and empties the rest of the wine bottle.

~*~*~*~

October 23rd, 1940

“We’re not going to talk about it,” is the only thing that Crowley says when he stops by Worthen’s desk, that morning. “If you ever utter a single word about him again, you’re not going to like what comes after.”

“Yeah,” Worthen just says. He’s got bags under his eyes. It might well be from that it was just very late by the time Crowley sent him away, but he rather thinks Worthen may not have slept at all during the night. “Whatever you want.”

Crowley sighs, and drops a box of chocolates on his desk then. “In my experience,” he says quietly, “the best thing you can do is offer up some sweets. Have a good conversation about it. Anne loves you, Henry. You’ll be fine.”

With that, he walks to his own desk, and ignores the burning eyes of Worthen in his back.

~*~*~*~

March 13th, 1941

Humans can be so tedious.

Crowley growls as he stalks through the streets of London. Smartly dressed, hat on top of his head, sunglasses perched on his nose, and completely invisible, as he should be. Another dead body, another forgotten son of war, and for what is it, really? Because there’s some people who like to play God.

She really did make them in Her image, didn’t She? With all the wars, and the pain, and the unforgiving coldness with which other sides are regarded. Don’t ask questions, because you’ll ask the wrong ones. Just obey, mindlessly, tirelessly. Or die.

He’s still mad as he walks into 64 Baker Street. A few people try to get his attention, probably for whatever mission he’s supposed to be doing now, but he’s very much done. He doesn’t wait to go inside Albert Hughes’ office as much as he storms in there.

“They killed my informant,” he says, and folds himself down in the man’s chair. “This is getting out of hand.”

Albert Hughes just raises an eyebrow at him. He’s not exactly the SOE’s big boss, but he’s supposed to be Crowley’s direct one, in charge over two of the direct departments. A little odd, having a human boss. Crowley’s been in employment before, but the new world has made it all so formal and everything. It’s almost as if they want him to feel like a step in the working world means a step in status.

Ha. As if Crowley would ever really care what Hughes thinks of him. Nice to be a respected employee, for a change, in as far as Crowley’s ever been a respected employee. Better than Hell, though, which only has bad books. Crowley’s never been one for impressing Hell, because it tends to go directly against the kinds of chaos he likes to inflict upon humanity. They like him well enough, anyway, and that’s the same it is with Hughes.

“What informant?” Hughes just asks, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “Mr Crowley, I’ve asked you before, please take off your sunglasses inside.”

“Nah,” Crowley says, and leans forward. “The - the girl, Sarah. The one with information on the German pilot. They _killed_ her. Must’ve been the German spies moving in London, no one else would’ve known as fast.”

Hughes rubs his forehead. “Mr Crowley, I know it’s a problem. They’ve been getting bolder. If you want to do something about it, you can work on it with Mr Worthen. He’s been tracking and eliminating them for months, but the leaders still remain out of sight. God knows your own lead might just have ended, if the girl’s really dead.”

“Fine,” Crowley mutters, and stands up again. The chair wasn’t that comfortable anyway, and he’s out of the door in almost a second. 

He always needs to do things himself. He tries not to think of the young woman, brave enough to contact the authorities, brave enough to dig deeper. Now she’s dead, murdered by the Nazi in her own city, in _his_ city, a city being burnt to the ground with every day the Blitz continues.

Worthen’s on the main floor, looking through photographs and papers. He’s muttering to himself while he reads, his jacket still on. He seems to have just come in, and his hair’s messy from the wind.

Crowley grabs the first of his files. It’s a mission report; a scouting on one of the German Nazi that Worthen’s been following. Greta Kleinschmidt, born 1913, moving around London under the alias of Rose Montgomery. A real piece of work, that one.

“What,” Worthen says, looking up wearily, “are you doing?”

“Looking through your files,” Crowley says. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Worthen repeats, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Does that mean you’re finally interested in helping me out? The big bad German spy ring in London finally attracted your attention?”

Crowley hums. “Killed my informant is what they did,” he says. “Now I’m stuck without a clue. It’s the second one, you know. It’s getting a bit tiring, and you’re not a fast worker, it turns out. _How_ long have you been on this case, again? So I thought I might help you out. What’s Kleinschmidt doing, then?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Worthen says. “I think they’re after artefacts of some sort. For months, there’s been whispers about all sorts of things. Magic stones, Excalibur, maybe even a bit of the Round Table, that sort of nonsense. I don’t even know where to start searching. Hitler’s after fairy tales, and he’s hunting them down in London.”

“Well, we always knew he was a bit insane,” Crowley says, and takes the new file that Worthen offers him. “So what’s got you in such a hurry that you can’t even take off your jacket? You’ve been running the streets.”

“They’re planning something today,” Worthen tells him as Crowley looks over another face. More German spies, all with fake names, all with some sort of purpose. Suspected crimes, suspected hiding places. All the actions that the SOE have taken against them, all for nothing so far. 

“Yeah?” Crowley murmurs.

Worthen tilts his head. “New fantasies. All kinds of books of prophecy, is the latest rumour. I tracked Kleinschmidt yesterday, a lucky shot. She’s made some deal with some sort of antique bookseller in Soho. Not sure if he’s one of them or if she’s fooling him, but I’ve gathered there’s supposed to be a meeting tonight. I just don’t think we’ll be able to make it there in time, not with the kind of manpower needed. Glozier and Harmony are supposed to be involved, too, and they’re two of the biggest names running around.”

Crowley’s heart has stopped somewhere in the middle of Worthen’s story. He stares at the file for a few more seconds, then promptly closes it as his body regains its functions. “An antique bookseller?” he repeats. “Soho? Is that A.Z. Fell and Co? Fell’s Antiquarian and Unusual Books, is that the one?”

There is a pause before Worthen’s gaze shifts. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “You heard rumours, too, or do you know the place? Look, it’s the next photograph in the file, that’s the shop.”

Crowley turns a page, and yes, that’s the bookstore, alright. He throws the file back at Worthen. “Believe me,” he says humorlessly, “he’s being tricked. There’s not an evil bone in Fell’s body. Where’s that meeting?”

“St. Dunstan-in-the-East,” Worthen says, and hurriedly gets up out of his chair to follow Crowley when he starts walking, “it’s a church near the Tower of London. Anthony, even if we leave now, we might not even be on time. You can’t go rushing off all on your own! There’s no plan, no one who knows who exactly is going to be there and what’s going to be down, and we don’t even know who Fell is in all of this!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Crowley says. His Bentley sits faithfully where he’d left her in the morning. Finding and tracking down what's happened to his informant had taken up most of the day, and the evening is already in sight. It won’t be a far drive, but the air raids will start up again soon.

“Anthony!” Worthen yells, even as Crowley gets into the car. “At least let me come with you!”

As if. Crowley’s got a rudimentary plan, but he wouldn’t let a human anywhere near it. Worthen doesn’t know a single thing about Crowley, but he’s tried to be his friend. It’s not really the man’s fault that Crowley only really has had one friend in his whole life, and it’s never going to be a human. 

“See you tomorrow,” he says pointedly, and shuts the door. The engine revs him comfortably, and he drives far too quickly, his hands trembling on the wheel.

~*~*~*~

There’s a gun pointed at the angel.

It’s the first thing Crowley sees when he enters St. Dunstan-in-the-east. The second thing he notices is the burn on his heels, the sacred reminder of his unholiness, of his Fall, of the very thing he’s supposed to be. He can’t stand still for very long, and he’s forced to almost jump his way forward, clinging to the church benches as if to relieve his burning feet. Well, it could’ve been worse. He’s never really tried to go into a church before.

He is on time, that is the important thing. He’s on time, and Aziraphale stands there, looking at him, and he hasn’t seen him in seventy-nine years and he looks _surprised_. Crowley can’t help but let out gasps as he hobbles his way towards the angel. Three Nazi - well, that’s not too bad. He can keep them talking long enough for the air raid to start, and then it’ll be all up to Aziraphale.

He really does hope Aziraphale won’t just - leave him here. Maybe he’s still mad?

“Sorry, consecrated ground,” he bites out when he gets closer to the assembled group. He recognises all of them. Seems Worthen’s information was right on the money; it’s Glozier, Harmony and Kleinschmidt. “Oh, it’s like - being at the beach in bare feet.”

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale hisses at him, taking a few steps closer. He doesn’t necessarily seem very upset, but there’s something guarded in his expression. Crowley shouldn’t be surprised, really.

“Stopping you,” he says, “from getting into trouble.”

“I should have known, of course,” Aziraphale says, turning back to the Nazi, indignity already in his tone. “These people are working for _you._ ”

For _him?_ He’d almost feel insulted as he leans into one of the church benches, trying very hard not to grind his teeth at the pain. “No! They’re a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies running around London blackmailing and murdering people. I just didn’t want to see _you_ embarrassed!”

He walks a little round, trying to walk off the pain in his feet. How do people deal with this when they’re at the beach? Is this a valid excuse to just never go to the beach? For the first time, he hopes the air raid starts soon, just so the church will be gone. Will the remains of the church still be consecrated? Questions, questions.

“Mr Anthony J. Crowley,” Mr Glozier says, drawing out his name. “Your fame precedes you.”

“Anthony?” Aziraphale asks.

Oh, yeah. He’d almost forgotten that he hadn’t had the first name, last time he saw Aziraphale. Feels like so long ago. “You don’t like it?” he asks.

“No, no,” Aziraphale hurries to say, “I didn’t say that. I’ll get used to it.”

Well. Ringing endorsement, that.

“The famous Mr Crowley,” Kleinschmidt says. The sound-struck quality of her voice would’ve been more enjoyable if she hadn’t been holding her gun, the muzzle alternating between pointing at him or Aziraphale. “Such a pity you must both die.”

Nazi. So sure of their own success, aren’t they? He tips his hat at her, still trying to find a position where he can stand still during his daring rescue mission and not be in pain. It can’t be long before the bombs start falling - it’s fairly easy to time them, these days. Two minutes, one? The three Nazi are still staring at him, and he stares back. There’s holy water behind them, which is by his estimation far more interesting than the three of them will ever be.

“What does the J stand for?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley lets out a noise. “Erm. It’s just a J, really. Look at that, a whole fontful of holy water! It doesn’t even have guards!”

“Enough babbling! Kill them both,” Glozier says, turning away from him. Crowley smiles, and leans back to the party.

“In about a minute, a German bomber will release a bomb that will land right here,” he says, gesturing for emphasis. “If you all run away very, very fast, you might not die. You won’t enjoy dying, _definitely_ won’t enjoy what comes after.”

“You expect us to believe that?” Glozier asks. “The bombs tonight will fall on the East End.”

Crowley tries to wobble on one feet. It doesn’t work much better. “Yes. It would take a _last-minute demonic intervention_ to throw them off course, yes. You’re all wasting your valuable running-away time!” He can feel Aziraphale looking at him, even as he starts walking again. “And if in thirty seconds a bomb _does_ land here, it would take a _real miracle_ for my friend and I to survive it.”

“A real miracle?” Aziraphale repeats, nodding along faintly.

“Kill them,” Mr Harmony says, “they’re very irritating.”

The air raid sirens sound. It’s the first time that Crowley has liked hearing them. He can almost hear the whistling of a falling bomb, too, if he focuses, and he grins, pointing at the sky. Well, he gave them a chance. It’s not really his fault if they refuse to take it. It’s more than they’ve given their opponents, really.

And now it’s all up to Aziraphale, although Crowley’s really rather sure that the angel isn’t thinking about the books that Harmony is still holding. Well, he has a little power left in him, enough for a small miracle. No use in saving Aziraphale if the angel is going to be moping about his lost collection for the rest of the century.

The bomb hits. Crowley finds himself standing in the ashes of what once was St. Dunstan-in-the-east. His feet still hurt, but the burning sensation is gone and only its aftermath remains. That’s one question answered, then.

Aziraphale stands opposite him, taking in the destruction, taking off his hat. Crowley’s not looking at him, cleaning his sunglasses instead. The ashes cling to the lenses. And now that he’s alone with Aziraphale, he can’t look at him. How to start _that_ conversation?

“That was very kind of you,” Aziraphale says quietly.

Crowley puts on his sunglasses. “Shut up,” he says.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, and it’s a bit awkward for a moment. “It was. No paperwork, for a start. Oh. Oh, the books! I forgot all the books! Oh, they’ll all be blown to -”

Crowley grabs the bag. “Little demonic miracle of my own,” he informs Aziraphale. “Lift home?” 

He starts walking. He parked the Bentley nearby, but he hadn’t dared to put it right next to the church. He’s willing to do a lot of things, but he’s putting his car anywhere it will be blown up for certain. He’s had her since new, not a scratch, and that’s what she’s going to be until the end of time.

Aziraphale catches up with him. “Oh,” he says faintly. “You - you got a car?”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, taking the driver’s seat. “1926. Wonderful machines. It’s an upgrade compared to horses, really. They go faster, too. Look, just get in. I wouldn’t discorporate you just after I helped save your neck, angel, really, what do you take me for? I’m a demon, I’m not soulless.”

“I didn’t think that,” Aziraphale mutters as he gets inside.

Crowley just starts the car, only mildly enjoying Aziraphale’s shocked face as the Bentley roars to life. “Relax,” he drawls, “it won’t be a long ride anyway. I can go from here to Soho in under ten minutes.”

The air raid sirens are still going off. Aziraphale is holding on for dear life, but he’s not saying anything as Crowley races past empty streets. Soho only takes him eight minutes, although he wishes he’d gone a little slower when he gets there. He doesn’t know what to say, and he really doesn’t know how to explain, when the bookshop looms in front of him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, and then stops. Sighs. Crowley waits for him to get it out, tapping the wheel as he does. “I just - do you want to come in? Erm. You’re not supposed to be outside when the air raid sirens are going off.”

Crowley considers him. Aziraphale is looking intently at him, gentle light playing over his features as he sits in the car. He hasn’t seen him in seventy-nine years, which is nothing, by all accounts. They’ve gone centuries without one another, all back in the beginning. Crowley doesn’t need him, not really. Angels and demons were made to face the world alone, in a way, no family or friends or partners needed. They’re not human, not really.

Aziraphale clutches his books to his chest, a desperate hope painted in the crease of his brow, the line of his nose. _Fraternising_ , that’s what he said, and Crowley’s not sure they can keep doing this. If Hell ever finds out what Crowley’s gone and done, they won’t show him any mercy. If Hell finds out, Crowley will be over and done with. They’ll end him, and he won’t have any warning at all. 

And what will they do to Aziraphale? Fussy, prim Aziraphale, the angel who’s gotten used to humanity’s soft parts of life? Aziraphale, who gave away his sword without any hesitation, who cries at the end of Shakespeare plays, who keeps calling him a serpent and yet always invites him in at the end of the day?

“Better not,” he says, and hates himself for it a little. 

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, and makes no move to get out of the car. He looks away, though, to his books. The light falls on his light curls, now, catching. “So - erm. I’m sorry if it’s too forward, but - how did you know I needed help? Not that I don’t appreciate - but you know, it’s all - I was just wondering, is all.”

“I’m part of the Special Operations Executive,” Crowley says. “Been there for - what? Couple of years? Wasn’t always called that, though.”

“Secret Intelligence?” Aziraphale asks, blinking.

“Meh,” Crowley mutters, “more a sort of super-secret spy campaign. Don’t expect you to have heard of it, it’s all very hush-hush. Word on the street is that they’re calling us the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare. I rather like that one, I think. Don’t see what’s so gentlemanly about warfare, anyway.”

“So you’re sort of a -” Aziraphale grapples for the word, “spy?”

“That’s exactly what I am, angel,” Crowley tells him. “Anyway, we’ve been trying to deal with the German spy ring in London for months, now. Heard they were selling up a deal with a bookseller, and then heard it’s you. Did you know they thought you might be a Nazi yourself? Funny, that.”

“Hilarious,” Aziraphale mutters, and sighs. “Well. If you’re not going to come in, I should - leave, I suppose. It’s been a rather wearying evening, with all this action. Thank you again, Crowley, for saving me from an embarrassing discorporation, and for the books. It’s far too ni-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley says. “Tell the whole blessed world, won’t you? Bye, angel. I’ll - I’ll see you around.”

“Will you?” Aziraphale says, something tugging at his lips as he steps from the car. “Thank you, Crowley. Have a pleasant evening.”

“Thanks,” Crowley murmurs, watching the angel walk for the bookshop. Aziraphale looks around himself once, his gaze falling on the Bentley for two long seconds. Then the bookshop opens her doors for its sole inhabitant, and falls shut behind him. A candle starts burning, soft and gentle light falling through the windows. 

He sits there for a few minutes, grounding himself by holding the wheel. This is fine. Nothing’s really changed, but Aziraphale is still in London. They didn’t talk about the holy water. Didn’t even mention Heaven or Hell. There’s a church broken down before its time, but really, that was only a matter of time. All things return to dust, as they say.

Tomorrow, he’s going to have to explain to Hughes and Worthen why he ran off to save a bookseller who was also possibly a Nazi from other Nazi, why they died in a church, and how he got out unscathed. His feet feel blistered, still, and they’re probably going to be hurting for a few weeks.

He leans his forehead against the wheel, and breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done a lot of research to make this entire thing as historically accurate as I could possibly hope for, although I've tweaked some things to make it work better (like the headquarter thing - the SOE did go to Baker Street during the war, but I think it was a later date!). I'm not a historian, though, so I've tried my best. might have missed some things and gotten stuff wrong. let's call it creative freedom instead of dumbassery.
> 
> this was originally meant to be like a 10k oneshot, but... things got away from me. it's about 27k now, and that's the reason I'm splitting it up in chapters. posting the others won't take me too long hopefully so I'll update soon, and please let me know what you think!


	2. 1941-1943

December 7th, 1941

“Fuck,” Crowley says, hanging on the phone. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. I’m coming, don’t _harass_ me, I’m on the way.”

Humans.

He sits on his couch, pinching his nose. This war has been going on for two years, and it’s going to be boiling for a while longer. Quietly, his movements slow, he rises. He should be rushing out the door, back to the work he just got back from. It’s almost dinner time, almost six in the evening. He hasn’t had dinner since the last time Worthen invited him over, and that’s months ago. 

The plants shudder when he comes in. Crowley runs his fingers over their immaculate leaves. He’d gotten a few of them at the start of the war, and now they’re plentiful. He’s not exactly sure what spurred him to brighten up his apartment, but it’s a bit like having company. A human won’t understand his nature, but plants - _plants_ don’t have a say in their own salvation or damnation. Plants look at him, and they see a demon, and they see their own personal god, a deity to crush them or lavish them as he pleases.

He’s had plants before, Crowley thinks vaguely. When he’d lived in Gomorrah, he’d had plants. He wonders how long they lived after the entire place had been cleansed by the angels. If they’d died in that holiest light. 

Wordlessly, he lets go and stalks out. He’s a British spy now, and the war has welcomed a new player. Pearl Harbor has been attacked, and none of them had known of the plan beforehand. He’ll need to check on their communications with their spies in Japan, see if there’s been a change. How could no one have _known_? And that’s not even the only part of it. 

He takes the Bentley down to Baker Street, sits in it for a moment to let it sink in. Then he strolls out of the car, feeling the December wind brush against his hair and cheeks. He straightens his hat, takes out a cigarette, lighting it with only a touch of his fingers. Hellfire nips at it, and he inhales the smoke. 

He walks in.

“Anthony!” Worthen calls out, when he sees them. The entire department is sitting together, grey faces and heavy looks. None of them look well-rested, as they haven’t done for years now, and the chatter is quiet and subdued.

“Hey,” Crowley mutters, sitting down. “Fill me in, then. Japan attacked the United States and they’ve invaded Malaya. ‘S not a good sign. They didn’t even declare war, what do they think they’re doing?”

Worthen shakes his head. “They’re going to be at war now,” he says pointedly. “And America, besides. Current theory going around is that they attacked Pearl Harbour to make sure the United States wouldn’t get involved with Malaya. They’ll be busy sorting their own problems.”

Makes sense, really. Their air force isn’t as good as Germany’s, and the only way Britain can really compete is with the navy. Who knows if involving the United States is going to make things better or worse, in the long run? More allies, yes, but also more human lives at stake. The scale of this war is going grander with every passing day.

“Why didn’t we know?” Crowley asks, and the chatter falls silent. 

Only Hughes looks up, their boss’ posture screams of his defeat. He’s aged about ten years in the last two, his grey hair growing closer to white. “A few of our Japanese spies were killed, days ago,” he says. “We didn’t have time to investigate the matter, or to look into their cases. We thought we already knew everything to know about their plans to take Mayala anyway. Say, you have another of those cigarettes?”

Crowley wordlessly passes him one, along with the lighter he keeps in his pocket. Hughes coughs softly as he takes his first dreg, running his fingers of the transmissions from the United States and Mayala. 

“This is going to be a mess,” Ackland says. “Japan and America are going to be at war, and then it’s going to be Germany and Italy against America, too, and then the Yankees are going to be involved. How’s that going to work?”

“The aircrafts are largely untouched,” Worthen says. “Could be worse. They’re still able to go on the offensive, even if most of their battleships are destroyed. They didn’t destroy the bases or headquarters, and the oil tank farms are still standing.”

Crowley snaps his fingers thoughtfully. “The Japanese are counting on a quick victory,” he says. “And they’re used to fighting on water. It can be turned around. If this war drags on, the Americans can rebuild quickly enough for them to make a difference in this war. On _our_ side.”

Hughes looks thoughtful, cigarette hanging loosely in his mouth. “There’s a lot of work to be done, boys,” he says, and rises. “I’m expecting you lot to stay here for the night. We’re going to need to rebuild a network in Japan, and we’re tightening whoever we have in the United States at the moment. We’re going to have to see if we can get some more people in Mayala, because I don’t like the way that _that’s_ going.”

The phone at his desk rings. Crowley picks it up, only to feel a different kind of smoke enter his lungs than that of the cigarette still in his mouth. He grimaces, waving away the smell and putting out his cigarette.

“ _Crowley,_ ” the voice on the other side croaks. “ _We have a new assignment for you_.”

“Erm, hey,” he says, wincing. “A little busy here, if you don’t mind. Lots of big operations, human death, a war going on, you see?”

“ _Yes_ ,” the voice says, and is that Hastur? He thinks it might be Hastur, “ _We know, Crowley. We know about the deaths that occurred today. Your doing, we take it?_ ”

“Erm, sure,” Crowley says. “All me. So, erm. What’s up?”

“ _We want some more German spies across Europe. They’re very popular down here, you know_.”

Crowley almost sighs. Since the debacle with Harmony and Glozier, the spy network of Germany inside London finally died down a bit. He should’ve known it would be too good to last. He can probably find some Germans that won’t do that much damage, in the overall. Somehow.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m on it. Can’t have this war ending any time soon, can we now?”

He puts a pen in his mouth, puts the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he rifles through a few documents. They have a couple of addresses that are suspected to belong to German operatives, but nothing really final. Several German spies have already turned; maybe he can get some more Germans on the Allies’ side.

“ _We’re very glad you understand, Crowley. Hell will await your report. All Hail Satan._ ”

“All Hail Satan,” Crowley murmurs, taking the pen out of his mouth as he glances over the files, “woo-hee. Bye.”

German spies. _German_ spies. They didn’t say anything about the allegiance of those spies, did they? Just that they had to be German. That’s a nationality, nothing else. Crowley puts back the telephone, stands up, snaps his fingers, and gets to work.

~*~*~*~

January 2nd, 1942

St James Park is all but abandoned. The chill in the air and the splattering rain has scared away everyone but the most intrepid of explorers. Anyone who is there moves quickly, eager to get home, hands in their pockets and red noses sniffling. 

An angel and a demon sit on a bench, mostly unbothered by the damp coldness, if only because there are other things to be worrying about.

“You think they’re going to end the world soon, then?” Crowley asks lazily, twirling the cigarette in his mouth between his thumb and index finger. “Soon? Or d’you wager they’ll wait for the big ol’ six thousand? Hell, Earth will be six thousand in… 1994? Did I get that right? Yeah, yeah, I’m sure I did. Would be nice if they waited for a bit. Fifty-two more years. So the people who’re alive right now could be living for the big six o-o-o.”

Aziraphale turns up his nose, looking at the grey clouds. “I really do hope we have a little longer,” the angel says quietly. “They still have so much to offer. Six thousand years rather did go by in a flash, I think. I could watch them for a hundred thousand and not be bored.”

“Not the Plan,” Crowley points out. “Not if you’re to believe head office. Reckon we’re going to be running out of time sooner than either of us want. And then we’re going to have a war on hands that makes this one look like the equivalent of one toddler pushing another in the sand.”

“We have to follow the Plan,” Aziraphale says stubbornly. “It’s - it’s ineffable, Crowley.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says. “Like drowning the majority of Mesopotamia, and killing a third of Europe with that plague. Like having them cut each other’s head off. Like killing off your own Son very slowly to have him redeem the rest of humanity. It’s a harsh love, Hers. Almost makes you want to not have it, really.”

“Her Love is eternal,” Aziraphale says.

“But hang on. Real love shouldn’t depend on whether you lived right or wrong, I should think,” Crowley says, shifting on the bench. “If She really loved any of us, she wouldn’t do that.”

“All of humanity is Hers,” Aziraphale points out. “Heaven or Hell, they are Her children. Who’s to say what will happen to them once Paradise comes again?”

“If you win,” Crowley says, and takes another drag of his cigarette. “And us demons are all destroyed, you mean. That Paradise? The Paradise won by the blood of demons? We were angels once, you know. Long time ago. We didn’t know what’d happen, before the Fall. You remember how chaotic it was in those days. Didn’t know what’d happen.”

“Would you have chosen differently?” Aziraphale asks him quietly. They’ve never discussed this kind of thing before, and Crowley feels his human heart beat traitorously against his chest. “If you’d known. If you’d known what Falling would be like. If you’d known where you’d be right now?”

“Dunno,” Crowley says casually. “Don’t regret it, really. Wasn’t nice, you know, boiling pool of sulfur. Guess I wouldn’t want to do that again. But I don’t think I was a very good angel. There wouldn’t really be anything for me to do up now, would there? All planets and stars are pretty much done. Better to be here on Earth and walk with the humans. At least there’s something fun going around here most of the time. Heaven’s just the same old boring place it’s always been, and Hell’s not much better. So. I’d just rather be on Earth.”

“Maybe not these days,” Aziraphale says mournfully. “Right. Give me that cigarette.”

Crowley hands it over. Aziraphale takes it between his lips and turns his nose up at it after exhaling. Crowley laughs involuntarily. It’s such an odd thing; an angel sitting there with a cigarette, neatly pressed against his lips, lit with hellfire and turned into a rather harmless little spark. A beam of sunray cracks apart the clouds, warming Crowley’s hands a bit.

“Don’t like it, then?” he asks, taking the cigarette back. There’s a whiff of Aziraphale’s scent as their fingers brush.

Aziraphale tilts his head. “Not really to my tastes, no,” the angel says. “Those things will kill you, you know.”

“That’s not true,” Crowley says, and sniffs indignantly. “M’ a demon. I can’t be killed.”

“They’ll kill humanity, then,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley shrugs. “Nothing they’re not doing already, angel. Bombs will get them long before the cigarettes do.”

They sit quietly for a few more moments. A few ducks waddle along, unbothered now that there’s barely anyone. Crowley can feel Aziraphale watching the animals, picking at the grass. They don’t stray far from the water, even as they flap their wings.

Aziraphale sits straighter, throwing a few breadcrumbs their way. The ducks fight over it, squabbling like they’re all starving. For all Crowley knows, they might be. Who has time to feed ducks in wartime when the rations are as strict as they are?

Aziraphale leans on his knees, watching them, hands folded underneath his chin. Crowley sits still, watching him instead. Aziraphale asked him to come today, and he hasn’t yet said why. Crowley hasn’t pressed. He hopes it’s not for the same reason as their last meeting in St James Park. Somewhere at the bottom of the water, there are the ashes of a little note with the words ‘holy water’ scribbled on it.

“The National Service Act,” Aziraphale eventually says. “The second one, passed in December. What do you think?”

Crowley blinks at him. “I think it’s a thing. Most men are off to fight the war. They don’t really have a lot of choice, do they now?”

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale says, and exhales. “I’d hoped the war wouldn’t go this far. Where were you, in the Great War? Doing the same thing you’re doing now? Were you even in England?”

“Erm,” Crowley says. “Wasn’t really around.”

Aziraphale just shakes his head at him. “I was on the frontlines,” he murmurs. “I hoped it’d be the end of it, after that. I thought it was my duty, though, to fight for freedom. I was born with a sword in my name; I was taught to fight in the name of the Lord. I know what you think of me, Crowley. You think I’m not fit for war.”

Crowley puts out his cigarette and folds his hands in his pocket. “Never said that,” he mutters.

“I was created for fighting,” Aziraphale says quietly. “Although I don’t really like it all that much. All those poor humans, dying. Even if I’d been allowed to help, I couldn’t have saved all of them. One angel against an Earth intent to fight itself is little use, all in all. Gabriel told me to leave in 1916, you know, go back to London. I was all too relieved to do as he said, this time. I shouldn’t have been. I should’ve stayed.”

“There’s nothing you could’ve changed, angel,” Crowley says. “All of this is out of our hands.”

“Then why are you a spy for the Crown?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley shrugs. “Something to do,” he says. “It’s not a bad job. I’m just creating havoc for a specific side, mostly. Not very different from what I’m doing for Hell, most of the time.”

Aziraphale sighs, and throws some more breadcrumbs. “Crowley?” he asks, and seems so troubled. “The National Service Act. It applies to - me. Well. As far as the humans think, really. And I know there’s a need of men, but I -”

Crowley freezes. He thinks of Aziraphale, fighting in France. He knows what the National Service Act is for - young men are pouring out of England, dying on the mainland of Europe for their freedom. The second National Service Act calls for men younger than fifty-one to fight, instead of younger than forty-one. An age group Aziraphale falls into, as they’ve figured out by human consensus over the years. 

Getting a new corporation is a lengthy process. It could be years, decades, before Aziraphale gets a new body and joins him on Earth. Could be a century. And they might not even decide to give him one, if they wanted. If they’re unsatisfied with Aziraphale’s actions.

“You don’t need to,” he says, his heart hammering. “There’s exemptions. Medically unfit, you could say - I’m with the SOE, they won’t go against my word -”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s hand on his, impossibly. The blue eyes have a focus of steel. “I _would_ , you understand? I would’ve gone the day the war started, despite my feelings about the Great War. They’re - it’s horrible, they’re killing entire families, little _children_ \- for their religion, for their sexuality, for being _different_ \- I would. I want to do _something_.”

“Heaven told you not to get involved,” Crowley says slowly.

Aziraphale barely nods, looks away tersely towards the sky. There’s a fledgling rainbow far away, only just noticeable, but Crowley knows the angel’s looking at it. Aziraphale has always looked at rainbows like he’d rather forget what they stand for.

“I understand, of course,” he says quietly. “Gabriel made a good point about the first one. My miracles - I overdid it, really. And it didn’t make much of a difference in the long run. But a few of those humans lived, Crowley, because I was there. And now their sons are dying.”

“But,” Crowley says, “they know that I’m here, too, right?”

_Thwart me_ , he’s saying. _You’ve done it before. Tell them you’re thwarting me_.

“Gabriel was very explicit,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t think even if you were truly doing something horribly vile, I’d be allowed to interfere, this time. The war is to run its course without any help from divine sources.”

Crowley hums. “Doesn’t mean there’s nothing else you can do,” he says thoughtfully. “The war, sure, but there’s still people left in London.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can see the thoughts running behind the angel’s eyes, his expression shocked into something delightful. “Oh, yes, there’s a great many things I can do that don’t involve fighting, aren’t there. I can help people who have difficulty with rationing. Or send companionship to those who are lonely during this period. Communication, maybe, something to do with letters. Oh! Maybe I can do what you’re doing and be a _spy!_ ”

Crowley sends him a look. “Please don’t become a spy,” he says.

Aziraphale sits up straighter, making a noncommittal sound as he straightens up his bowtie. Suddenly, he looks far more pleased with himself. “I would make a good spy,” he says, and throws another round of breadcrumbs to the ducks, far more lively. The ducks’ feathers look very white and angelic, all of a sudden.

“Angel, please,” Crowley mutters, and snaps his fingers. The ducks look normal again.

Aziraphale has the good grace to look abashed. “Forgot myself for a moment there,” he says. Crowley just shakes his head at him.

~*~*~*~

14 September 1942

Crowley is stuck in a damp cellar with bad lightning. Not that he can see the lightning; there’s a dark cloth that’s sitting over his eyes, very tightly wrapped around his head. He can hear the humming of electricity, though, a constant noise that goes straight to his brain. Funny thing; it reminds him of Hell, a little bit. 

It’s most definitely Earth, though. Hell wouldn’t hit him over the head with a metal bar and drag him to whatever hole they have. Hell would just kill him. Besides, they’re moderately pleased with what he’s doing. No, he’s still on Earth. Must be.

Last thing he remembers is walking out of 64 Baker Street. He’d had a meeting, someplace, but he doesn’t think he arrived. It’s a good thing, though, because people will notice he’s missing. That’s a first, really, humans who will know when he’s not there. 

He sits in an uncomfortable chair. His hands are tied to his back tight enough to hurt, and for some reason, his shoes have been removed. His socks are still on, though, and he can poke one of his toes through a hole in the right. He’s never bought these clothes, but he’s had them for long enough to start wearing thin. Odd; he’d always imagined his clothes to be top quality. Maybe he’d had an off day when he conjured these.

A clunking sound. A door falls shut; a stair creaks, five times. The electricity keeps buzzing as it has, even as someone makes their way down slowly. Their steps slow right in front of Crowley, and he can smell the faint odour of sweat and fresh paper. The only reason he knows what paper smells like is because he hasn’t had much of a choice, with Aziraphale as a friend.

“Mr Crowley,” someone says. He’s been sitting here, conscious, for - what, two hours now? A bit of a wait, but not bad for someone who’s been around six thousand years. 

“Hi,” Crowley says. “What’s up?”

“You don’t seem very concerned,” the man says. His voice is low, threatening. 

Crowley shrugs, as far as he can while bound to this chair. “Yeah, well,” he says. “Don’t see what good it will do. So, give me the monologue. What am I here for, hm, and what’s it going to take to let me go? Ooohh, am I never going to see daylight again? Tell me what it’s going to be, chap.”

“Your friends at the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare have no idea where you are,” the voice says. “No one’s coming for you, Mr Crowley. And even if they are, they’ll be too late.”

“Nice one,” Crowley says. “Good beginning of your speech. A bit cliché, really, but nothing wrong with that. It’s how all the greats begin. I’ve always liked a bit of a cliché myself.”

“Do you know who I am?” the man asks.

“Meh,” Crowley says, the high-pitched quality of his voice echoing through the room. “German, I’d guess. German-aligned, anyway. Doesn’t matter, don’t care. Although I _am_ a bit curious about what got me this treatment.”

“We know,” the man says darkly, and Crowley can feel him coming closer, leaning near his face. The smell is more intense, even if he still can’t see anything.

“Good for you,” Crowley says.

The man pulls away. “We know about Harmony and Glozier. We know you were involved in their deaths, and that of Fräulein Greta Kleinschmidt. We’re not sure _what_ you did, but you did something.”

Crowley tilts his head. “Is that it?” he asks in confusion. “I wasn’t exactly _hiding_ it, was I?”

“What?” 

“You know,” he says vaguely, bobbing his head around. “Dunno why that’s such a big deal. Had a lead, went for it, yeah. Did you think I was _bothered_ by that? I gave them plenty of time to run, you know, it’s really their own fault. And I’m generally not up for killing people personally, but to be fair, it was their own bomb, so I don’t think I’m really the one to blame here. That’s kind of one of those ethical things, yeah? If you blame the one who pulls the trigger or the one who - holds the gun? Is that right? So, really, you have to take that one up with the philosophers. Will never give you a straight answer, of course, but -”

“Shut up,” the man says, and his footsteps echo again.

“Rude,” Crowley tells him. “Why am I surprised, though, you’re a Nazi. Rude’s about one of the _best_ things you lot can be.”

“You’re Anthony J. Crowley?” the man demands.

“Pleasure,” Crowley says.

“You’re not really what I expected you to be.”

Crowley scoffs. “Sounds like a you-problem,” he says. “Look, not that I’m not having a grand time, but you’ve already kind of messed with my schedule, and I’d like to get on. So if you let me go right now, I’ll be _nice_. Same deal I got your Nazi friends, see?”

The man rips off the cloth over Crowley’s eyes. He pales instantly, and Crowley smiles. The man is still young, not older than forty, dressed sharply in a dark suit. High in some sort of chain - maybe even the spy chain, maybe something less conspicuous. Doesn’t really matter.

“Your eyes,” the man stammers. “That’s - you’re - you’re the _devil._ ”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Close enough,” he murmurs. “Although he probably wouldn’t enjoy being compared to little old me. Come on, then. Let me go.”

Instantly, the man’s resolve hardens. “No,” he says, and cocks up his gun, right to the middle of Crowley’s face. “No, I won’t. You should _die_.”

The ropes loosen with a quick miracle, and Crowley straightens. The bullet misses him by an inch, going straight into the wall. Crowley isn’t a fighter, by any means. The only reason he’s survived Hell is because he’s good at slithering away from conflict. It’s helped him often enough on Earth, too, when he hadn’t had his glasses. There’s been more than one time where people wanted to stone him. 

It’s been a while, though. Crowley hisses at the man, whoever he is, and snaps his fingers. The man stills, his eyes widening.

“I won’t die,” Crowley hisses sharply into the man’s ear. “You’re very annoying, and you tried to discorporate me, which would be _very_ inconvenient. But I did say I’m not really up for killing, really, not even arseholes such as you, so here is what you’re going to do. When I snap my fingers, you’re going to go up and you’re going to ruin whatever project you’ve got going on. You’re going to make it so that there’s an error that the Germans don’t know, and so that no one is _harmed_ , and then you’re going to leave London. I don’t care where you go, but you’re leaving this city. Oh, I know. You’re going to go to Germany. Won’t that be nice, going back home? And you’ll let them know you got there, whoever your superior is, and they’re going to be the one to decide your fate.”

He snaps his finger. The man shudders, and then looks straight at him again. “Who are you?” he asks, taking two careful steps back. 

Crowley hums. “Exactly what it says on the tin,” he says. “Anthony J. Crowley. Now _scram_.”

The man does, wild-eyed and broken, his mind steered by the miracle Crowley put on him. He can’t feel too bad, really. In the end, it’s not going to be up to him what happens to whoever this man is. Judging by the gun, he’s killed people before. Didn’t seem like he’d mind doing it again. Not that the gun will be a problem, now - it will only shoot confetti. Seems properly demonish, really. 

Just as he makes his way outside, breathing in the brisk evening air, a car screeches to a halt in front of him. He’s somewhere in the suburbs, he thinks; he can’t make out his exact location, but he was held in a _house_. There’s a garden and everything out front. No more sign of his mysterious kidnapper, though. 

Crowley holds up his hand as greeting when Worthen stumbles out of the car, eyeing him skeptically as Crowley saunters closer. 

“We thought you’d be dead,” Worthen says accusingly, staring him up and down. “Dear God, where’s your - glasses? And why aren’t you wearing shoes?”

“It’s an enigma,” Crowley says. “D’you happen to have a pair of sunglasses? Couldn’t find mine in the house. Not just kidnapping, but robbery as well. Bastard Nazis.”

Worthen blinks. “Maybe I got one in the car,” he says, and stares a bit longer. “You really weren’t kidding about that eye condition, were you? That looks _freaky._ ”

Crowley huffs and pushes past him. At least Worthen has known him for long enough that he won’t start screaming upon the sight, but he knows how unsettled people get. There’s a reason he has a dozen sunglasses lying around, but it’s not really his fault when he gets kidnapped, is it? 

He stops in his tracks when Aziraphale gets out of the car.

“Goodness,” Aziraphale says, brightening up. “I haven’t seen you this out-of-sorts since - well, it’s been years, I imagine. You’re not even wearing _shoes_.”

“And you’re still wearing _tartan_ ,” Crowley retorts automatically, and shakes his head. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Oh,” the angel says smugly. “I was called in, you see. Your friend Henry came around the shop this afternoon with the news that you were missing, and he asked if I knew where you might have gone off to. Of course I refused to let him go off by himself. I thought - I thought it might be _you know who_ , and thought I’d better come along.”

Worthen stands in their line of hearing for the last bit, raising his eyebrows at Crowley. He groans, and walks past the angel, leaning into the car to search it. There’s an abandoned pair of sunglasses, the lenses smudged and sitting uncomfortably on top of his nose. He wishes he had his own, but he can’t miracle them here with Worthen watching.

“Azira was kind enough to help,” Worthen says, leaning against the car as he inspects Crowley further. “Not that you seem to need much of that, though, Anthony. What happened here? Who took you, and where are they gone?”

“No one important,” Crowley says, and glares at Aziraphale. “He ran off the moment I overpowered him. Had me bound in this chair, you see, but the rope was a bit loose. So, _Azira_ , you thought you’d be able to come and help if something had happened to me, huh?”

Aziraphale smiles tightly. “You did get kidnapped. Who knows how I might have been able to help.”

“Not,” he says. “If any of this ever happens again, you’re not going to _come_. What are you going to do if it is - who you thought it was?”

He can’t have this conversation while Worthen is here, but he’s not sure if he’ll ever get to say it to Aziraphale otherwise. If Hell _had_ come for him, as the angel so clearly thought an option, it’ll be already too late. Aziraphale might only get himself in the crossfire, and who will that help? Certainly not Crowley.

“I could _help_ ,” Aziraphale presses.

“No, you _can’t_ ,” Crowley tells him, “I _told_ you how you could help, and you refused. That’s fine, that’s all - whatever, but you can’t go running in like that, angel. You’re only going to make things worse.”

“Look,” Worthen says, coming between the two of them. He really does not sense anything, does he? Any normal human being would be running, now, with the tense clashing of an angel and a demon. They wouldn’t know, of course, but there’s always something unsettling about their energy. Worthen either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “I don’t know what the two of you are to each other -”

“Fraternising,” Crowley spats out, irrationally angry. 

If Hell will come for him because of their Arrangement, Aziraphale can’t help him. He’s either to stay far away, for the rest of eternity, in some sort of attempt at _damage control_ , or he can give Crowley something to defend himself with if worse comes to worst. Since he _refused_ to do that, there’s really no point in trying to stay safe, is there? Aziraphale gave away his own sword, and now he’s denying Crowley one of his own.

“That’s not fair,” Aziraphale says quietly. 

Crowley sags. “No,” he says. “It’s not. But that’s not my fault.”

It’s a little awkward. There’s a lot Crowley could say, and he can see that Aziraphale is equally holding his tongue. Worthen just opens the car door, his gaze shifting between the two of them. Crowley wordlessly slides into the passenger’s seat, crossing his arms.

The car starts up. Worthen drives, and it’s far slower than what Crowley is used to. “How’d you find me?” he eventually asks.

Worthen looks over. “We had some addresses of German safe places,” he says. “We’d been keeping an eye on most of them in case they were ever used. Not sure who this one belonged to, but with a little digging, I think we might find out. Mr Fell told me to go to this one first.”

“Just a hunch,” Aziraphale says from the back.

“Right,” Crowley mutters, leaning back to give the angel a pointed stare. Aziraphale just looks away, looking remarkably out of place in the car. Had he looked this off in the Bentley? All he remembers of that day is Aziraphale’s quiet wonder.

It doesn’t matter. They’ll drop him off, and they won’t see each other again for a while. Crowley hasn’t contacted him ever since they got back in touch, and he won’t. He can’t, not anymore. 

Worthen’s car comes to a stop before the bookshop. Crowley looks away from it, to the other side of the street. The combination of his sunglasses and the dark of night has the entire corner pitch-black. 

“Thank you for your assistance, Mr Fell,” Worthen says politely. “It’d be appreciated if you kept the events of tonight to yourself.”

“Erm, yes,” Aziraphale says. “Of course. Thank you, Mr Worthen. Crowley?”

“Bye,” Crowley mutters, still looking away. 

He can feel rather than see Aziraphale hesitating, the angel unwilling to let this argument lie between them. Really, Crowley is not feeling great about it, but what can he do? He’s just a demon, and Aziraphale’s an angel, and the world will end when it’s somewhere around six thousand years old, which means they’ve got - what, two hundred years at most if Hell is feeling slow about it?

They are running out of time, and Aziraphale still won’t help him. 

Aziraphale opens the door without another word. It falls shut behind him, and Crowley does look out of the window now, past Worthen and to the bookshop, Aziraphale making his way to his own front door without looking back. He sags, a mixture of relief and disappointment flooding his body.

“You’re going to have to talk,” Worthen says sternly. “And who _is_ your Mr Fell, anyway? What the hell were you two on about, and why did he know where to go? Is he working for someone, too? Another one of the Intelligence boys? Because I looked into him, you know, and it’s all very suspicious. Of _all_ the people for you to be in love with -”

“I’m not in love with him,” Crowley says, and keeps staring past Worthen. A candle is lit behind one of the bookshop’s windows. Aziraphale probably just picked up a book. Crowley imagines his soft fingertips stroking one of his precious covers, meticulously picking out whatever he’s in the mood for. An angel, worshipping the written words of men, all gentle touches and rapt eyes.

“‘Course you’re not,” Worthen says. “You’ve only been having a lovers’ spat for forever. You’re going to have to give me some answers, Anthony. That man - he’s something. He’s different. He _knows_ things.”

Crowley huffs and steps out of the car too. “I’m walking home,” he says, and closes the car door a little too roughly. Worthen just stares at him, but Crowley starts walking. The street is uncomfortable, since he still doesn't have shoes, but he doesn't mind. The modern day makes it harder to keep things hidden from humans, and they won’t take it as granted as they used to, but what can Crowley say? That Aziraphale felt Crowley’s infernal energy? That Crowley can feel the pinpricks of heavenly warmth when Aziraphale does a miracle? 

It doesn’t matter. Worthen’s going to have to learn that he can’t know everything.

~*~*~*~

April 8th, 1943

Crowley is stuck behind his desk. Normally, he’d be off in London. He doesn’t bother with deskwork, but whatever comments anyone would have about that are long put out of their minds before they want to talk about him about - _job_ performance, or whatever. He gets things done, that’s the most important thing.

He’s not stuck behind his desk because of what he has to do for the SOE, though. He’s stuck here because Hell wants him to cause some chaos. In central London, with no questions asked. A bomb.

_Fuck_ , a bomb. Hell tends to ask for more violent performances, once every century; Crowley has found a myriad of ways to go around whatever he doesn’t like to do. He’s just a good enough agent to have stayed on Earth for almost six thousand years, flying under the radar of Hell’s administration whenever they pulled people back. He’s creative, is the thing, always up with the times, and the bosses Below like that - whatever Beelzebub may believe.

He’s still an agent, though. Hell expects him to obey, and Hell just told him that London is getting too quiet, now the Blitz has been over for a while. There’s still the tension of war, but that’s going on in mainland Europe. England has done a relatively decent job of maintaining itself, compared to the ruins in Belgium and France. And now Hell wants things to be stirring in London, too.

Therefore, Crowley has to do desk work. He’s spitting through files on German bombs, on plans that they’ve gotten, fake and real information left and right and no way to easily discern between the two. Hell is going to make Germany send the bomb, and Crowley’s job is to make sure no one intercepts it.

At least he’s not dropping the bomb himself. Crowley’s not sure if the relief is all that great.

Hughes sits down next to him, eyeing him curiously. “Mr Crowley,” he says. “Finally slowing your pace with the rest of us, I see?”

“Just doing my duty,” Crowley says, gritting his teeth and browsing through more files.

Hughes nods slowly, in the way that old men tend to do when they think they understand younger men. Crowley’s fingers itch with a miracle, but he holds it. 

“Your efforts have always been very valiant, Mr Crowley,” Hughes says. “Just because we are not on the frontlines does not mean we are not equally brave and not equally doing our duty. We feel - _guilt_ , sometimes. It is natural. The reports from the frontlines, our countrymen who gave their lives every day - but what we do is _equally_ necessary, so they will not give their lives in vain.”

“What,” Crowley says.

Hughes grasps his shoulder, tightening his hold on it. Crowley is a hundred times older than this man, walked the streets of this city before his father’s father was even a thought in God’s Plan, breathed the air during wars fought so long ago that they are barely a footnote in history books.

“We all struggle with our demons,” Hughes says, and walks away.

Sure, Crowley is struggling with demons. They keep sending him all these assignments he’d really rather not do.

_Humans_. Worthen sends him a look as he walks past, but Crowley just ignores it and stays seated. Ackland follows, winking exaggeratedly at him. For some reason, his zipper is down.

Crowley leans back and tries to ignore the fact that he’d rather go and find a bookshop to hole up in for the rest of this blessed war.

~*~*~*~

He goes up to the roof during noon and stays there for the rest of the day. A paper is crunched between his fingers, burning away with an infernal fire. No proof will exist for the rest of the SOE; no one will know they ever had this information. A bomb will land in Central London just before dinnertime, and Crowley is going to make sure it lands.

He wonders vaguely how many it will kill. A hundred? A thousand? It’s a nice day; people will be out on the streets. The sun hits him, and he pushes up his sunglasses further and takes a cigarette. 

At least some of them will make it up to Heaven. Killed by a devious plan of Hell, that’s sure to bump them up in the rankings somewhat. He hopes the bomb won’t hit St James Park. The ducks wouldn’t like it.

“Shit,” he murmurs to himself, lights up the cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth. It’ll kill them, these cigarettes, sure. Not as much as a problem for him, though, and he likes to use his hands. He likes the smoke filling up his lungs, a reminder of a Hell that has long been replaced by the more modern stuff. You won’t find the brimstone and infernal fire in the first few rings of Hell, but the deeper you go - well, there’s bound to be some around, still. Crowley hasn’t been back in a while.

A mother crosses the street, vaguely watching for cars. She has a child by each hand, two girls of no more than ten years old. The smallest has bouncing gold curls, almost catching white in the sunlight.

He blows out smoke until he can’t see them.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

Of course. His newest _friend_ , as these things go, a mortal that will see another fifty years at most, then turned to dust like all of them were doomed to. Worthen walks up to him quietly, and Crowley offers him the cigarette wordlessly. Worthen looks at him for a second, then takes it. He smokes quietly and non-intrusively, and Crowley takes another cigarette to have something to do with his hands.

“I think,” Crowley says eventually, when Worthen has already finished the cigarette, “is that I’m bloody well done with the war.”

“Aren’t all of us?” Worthen asks, using his hand as a shade above his eyes as he stares down at London. 

No, Crowley wants to say. Not this war, although also this war. The entire bloody thing, the origin of all wars; Heaven versus Hell, this useless destruction of Earth. He remembers Eden as if it were yesterday. So green and verdant, full of life and laughter, and then it’d been gone.

She’d made the humans in her own image, Crowley remembers. So why does She think that She’s fleeting? That She’s bound by time, by death? Doesn’t She know that the entire point of humanity is that they don’t last forever? That the fact that they’re always changing is the entire reason they’re so good, that they’re imaginative, that they’re bound to make use of their time? 

What does She know that he doesn’t, really? He asked, once, he thinks. He did ask, but She never really answered. She never did, and She still doesn’t.

“Do you believe in God?” Crowley asks, looking at his colleague. “Never asked, I suppose.”

Worthen smiles. “Yeah,” he says vaguely. “I guess I do, when it comes down to it. My parents were religious, so I spent all my Sundays in a church. I don’t understand why any God would send these wars to us, but that’s religion for you. It’s about belief, my dad used to say. I asked a lot of questions as a kid, but my mum and dad couldn’t answer all of them. I think I understand better now, though.”

“That it’s a test?” Crowley says. “That God’s testing you?”

“Not so much a test,” Worthen says, scrunches up his nose, and waves his hand around. “It’s more like - it’s part of life, right? Questioning, learning, growing up. And it’s not God who sent these wars to us. I think He made us capable of our own choices, and some people just make the wrong ones. I think maybe we just weren’t made to understand it all. Don’t know what priests would say about that, mind you.”

If Crowley were really testing his faith, he’d be asking more. He’s tempted some nuns and priests, back in the day, when you could score big with that sort of thing in Hell. Never really was sold on that, either; in the end, all he can do is tempt. He can’t really do anything, because it’s not his call about whether they follow his temptation or not. It’s all them, and then even if they do give in, they have the choice of redemption.

It’s been a few thousand years since he last wondered what _that_ must feel like, but the bitter taste of it comes back on his tongue. Maybe it’s just the cigarette.

“S’ what they call ineffable,” he murmurs. “Just a clever word for sodding useless, really.”

“It will be over soon, anyway,” Worthen says. “Germany’s having trouble. Russia and Africa are growing too troublesome for them, and they won’t hold. Hughes is hopeful it might be over soon, the war.”

“They’ll fight until the end, though.” Crowley straightens his back, turns away from the street below them. “And nothing’s decided yet. They’ll fight until their last breath.”

“Anthony,” Worthen calls. Crowley raises his eyebrows at him. “I saw you leafing through intel this morning. What were you doing?”

The bomb will be here in an hour. It might end up on this very building and kill everyone. If Crowley were any kind of smart, he’d move away from London for a while. He’s seen it on fire before, and he never really liked the sight.

Might end up in Soho. Better stay to be sure.

“Just checking,” he says vaguely. “Germany might be getting desperate. I just thought we should be cautious.”

He leaves Worthen standing there, going down all the stories. There’s a lot of chaos in 64 Baker Street as usual, but at least they won’t know about the bomb. Crowley hurries down the stairs, lets the front door fall shut behind him and crosses the street. When he looks up, he can’t see Worthen on the roof anymore.

He drives around in his Bentley, for a bit. He comes near Soho, although he stays away from the bookshop. He parks in a street that he doesn’t know particularly well and looks to the skies, leaning against the wheel as classical music plays.

He likes Tchaikovsky just fine, really. Sometimes he just thinks that humanity still has better music to offer, that’s all. Who knows what they’ll come up with, next? Something with a bit more flair, a bit of a bass. Something that he can play when it feels like the world is ending.

The sun sets on London. People pass down by his car, not even paying attention to the man who’s been sitting in it motionlessly for a couple of hours. Crowley sits, and sits, and sits, and when it’s two in the morning, he turns off Tchaikovsky and fiddles with his radio.

“ _Bad afternoon! You’ve reached the office of Dagon, Master of Torments. How can I help you?_ ”

“Erm, hi,” Crowley says. “Who am I speaking to?”

“ _This is Jill,_ ” the demon on the other side says obligingly. “ _And you are?_ ”

“I’m Crowley,” he says. “Sorry, I was under the impression - Jill, are you? That’s not a very demonic name.”

The demon tssk’s him, still audible over the radio static. “ _You’re not very forward thinking, are you? It’s the twentieth century. We can’t all go around with names like Bael, or Andromalius, or Asmodeus. ‘Sides,_ Crowley’ _s not a very demonic name, either, so I don’t see how you’d get a say in this anyhow. What’d you want, then? Dagon’s busy, so I’m taking over for her_.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Crowley mutters. “Just - I’m an Earth agent? I was told there’d be a bomb in London, but I haven’t seen anything. I was just… wondering. What's happened to it.”

He can hear the ruffling of papers for a moment, and a huffing noise. “ _Bomb in London?_ ” Jill repeats. “ _Yeah, I got the order here. Seems you’re in a bit of a bad spot; the bomb didn’t go through. Some humans messed with it. I don’t know if the head office is planning on sending another one, though. Not all of us are larking about on Earth all the time, you know_.”

It didn’t go through. Something happened to it. A bomb lost in the chaos of war - a bomb sent by Hell, still capable of being influenced by _human_ wiles. Crowley lets out a rattled breath, lifting his sunglasses to rub his face. After all this is over and done with, he’s going to sleep another fifty years.

“Yeah, erm, that’s a shame,” he says. “Good talking to you, Jill. Bye now.”

“ _Now you’re on the line, though, I’ve got a complaint here about you sent up from DR -_ ”

Crowley hangs up and exhales.

~*~*~*~

December 1st, 1943

“We could’ve met up somewhere else,” his informant mutters indignantly. “What about St James Park? I’m used to meeting at St James Park, and it works. No one ever notices.”

“Shut up,” Crowley says, already annoyed, and looks at the people passing by, unaware that there’s a spy in their midst. As things stand, the In and Out Club isn’t really his favourite spot for meeting up, but needs must. And he’s not going to St James Park for work, no matter who’s asking.

His informant huffs and leans against the wall. He’s middle-aged and obviously very self-important, his clothing speaking of his wealth. Crowley’s sure that this man doesn’t really follow the rationing. Sir John Davies’ hair may be thinning, but that’s about all of him that such a word can be applied to.

“Young man,” Davies says, “I expect to be _respected_ in this meeting. I led a great deal of men in the Great War, and even now I’m coming forward for Queen and country.”

Crowley checks the corridors. He’s not the only one to use the In and Out Club as a meeting point, and normally he’d prefer to be out on the streets, but Sir Davies had insisted on a proper place, and Ackland had recommended this one. 

He should’ve met with this man in the tube station. That would’ve been a lark.

“Good for you,” Crowley says, and unbuttons his jacket to grab the picture. “This is the man you met with last night, isn’t it?”

Davies inspects it gruffly. “Quite right,” he says. “He gave his name as William Dawkins. He spoke at length about - certain ideas that he had. I pretended to play along, of course.”

William Dawkins. Crowley scribbles down the name at the other side of the photograph, holding it against the wall. It’s an alias they didn’t have yet. 

“What’d he tell you?” Crowley asks, putting a suggestive tone in his voice. He doesn’t really need to tempt Davies, of course, but old habits. Besides, it’ll speed up the process, and Crowley has a hot shower waiting at home. 

Davies hesitates for a moment, but then falls for it. They always do. “The thing is, Mr Crowley - I had a reason for wanting to meet with you, out of all persons. Dawkins’ suggestions were - very troubling. He spoke at length of the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare, with a great many details that I can’t verify, of course, but that seemed rather to speak of insiders knowledge. And he mentioned you personally by name in a - _less than favourable light._ ”

Crowley blinks. “Why did he come to you?” he asks next, his attention captured. “What does he want you for?”

“A year ago, in September,” Davies starts, “my brother disappeared and was later, as I understand it, found in Germany and sentenced to death. As a traitor. My mother is German, you see - my brother Richard, he had such trouble processing the Great War.”

“You mean he defected,” Crowley says flatly.

Davies winces. “Yes,” he admits. “It is my belief that he was part of a Nazi chain here in London. I lost contact with him for a long time. You must understand, Mr Crowley, I rather did not want to know what he was doing. He is my brother, and having suspicions - it’s different to know anything for certain. Richard has always been headstrong. He got into trouble, and I was informed. According to Dawkins, he got into trouble with _you_.”

“The SOE?” Crowley prompts.

“No,” Davies says, “you, personally. Dawkins told me that my brother kidnapped you, for one plot or another - I’m sure I don’t know. He seemed to be under the impression that I shared similar thoughts as Richard did, and that I would feel obliged to turn against you. He wanted me to take Richard’s place. I told him I would call him later and tell him. Mr Crowley, Dawkins had such detailed intel. He didn’t share everything with me, but - I am rather concerned about national safety.”

Davies is trembling, and the laughter in the In and Out Club suddenly seems from another world. Crowley stares at Sir John Davies. Richard Davies - that’d been the man who had taken him, then. The man that Crowley had sent to Germany. The man that’d been executed.

Crowley didn’t know his name, but now he does. “It’s a good thing you came to us,” Crowley says. “You’re concerned about a mole. I assure you, Sir Davies, the SOE vets all of its people. Just to verify, though, you’re going to have to tell me what he told you.”

Sir Davies starts talking. Crowley feels his lips tighten by the second.

Okay, so maybe they do have a little bit of a problem. There’s undoubtedly a mole in the SOE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final part will be up soon! I'd love to know your thoughts and thanks for reading :)
> 
> \- L


	3. 1944-1949

January 27th, 1944

In the olden days, they used to run into each other by accident. There was always a large gap between meetings back then, of course - decades or centuries could pass by with Crowley being by himself, contending himself with the fleeting companionship of men and women but mostly with his own schemes. There’s fun to be found in chaos, that’s the truth of it.

It always was fun when the angel was around, though. The angel who wouldn’t smite him, and make nice conversation with him, and who was open for a good verbal sparring if Crowley got him something to eat. Aziraphale, the angel of the Eastern Gate, and the only one Crowley considered a friend, if a distant and somewhat hesitative one. 

Nowadays, Crowley and Aziraphale have acknowledged their mutual acquaintance, although the angel still seems to have issues with calling it a friendship. Crowley isn’t bothered; Aziraphale always hides behind heavenly words, but he doesn’t seem to mind letting his actions speak. Heaven cares more about what you say than what you do, anyway, something Crowley had learnt the hard way.

The point is that there’s a method to this madness. They have established rendez-vous points all over London, in case of an emergency or just for meeting up. Aziraphale leaves him letters, or at least he did in the nineteenth century, and Crowley sometimes just shows up at the bookshop. London is a big city, and they don’t just run into each other.

Except today, it seems. 

“Crowley!”

“Aziraphale,” he says, blinking as the angel worms himself through a group of people. Camden Town isn’t what it used to be, having been the destination of a bomb in the Blitz, but London can’t stay down for long. And it _has_ been three years, now.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, panting. He must’ve run for Crowley. “I just - hello. How are you?”

“ _How are you?_ ” Crowley repeats incredulously. “That’s what you’re saying? _Really?_ ”

“Well, I don’t want to be rude,” Aziraphale says, and his cheeks are a pink hue from the cold weather and the short run, and his brown scarf props up his curls. Crowley feels a surge of fondness.

“Angel,” he murmurs. “Yeah. I’m fine. How are you?”

“Oh, I’m doing jolly good,” Aziraphale says, but he’s staring at Crowley as if they haven’t seen each other in a century instead of a little over a year. The morning light makes the blue of his eyes stand out all the more, the rosiness of his cheeks a nice contrast with his usually pale skin.

God, Crowley _wants_.

“Jolly good, aren’t you,” Crowley sighs. “So the whole thing with Heaven, how’s that working out for you? Gabriel on your case yet for helping people?”

“No, no,” Aziraphale says hurriedly. “Gabriel was rather understanding of my assistance of the poor London inhabitants. Uriel gave me a commendation, you know. Just two months ago. They just do not want me to get involved in the fighting itself.”

“Ah,” Crowley says. “Nice one, then.”

“I just wanted to thank you for giving me ideas,” Aziraphale says, taking a step closer. “I didn’t exactly get a chance to talk to you last time we saw each other. Erm - how’s Mr Worthen? I got the impression he didn’t exactly like me.”

Crowley shrugs. “Thinks you’re suspicious,” he just says. “It’s his job, looking out for hiding Nazi in London. You’re not supposed to just know things, angel.”

“I couldn’t have you run the risk of discorporating,” Aziraphale says indignantly. “He came to me, completely unexpected, telling me you went _missing_! I was worried sick! I thought it might have been -”

“Hell?” Crowley interrupts. 

Aziraphale’s expression flashes with all sorts of complicated things; fear, hurt, concern, and at last replaced with resolution. “Yes,” he says quietly. “And I’d never have known.”

Crowley turns away. Aziraphale hurries after him, a firm companion on his right. Crowley just takes his sleeve and steers him down into a street, away from the busier plaza. There’s a man sitting on a bench, casually reading a newspaper. Every few seconds, he looks up as if disturbed, and then he looks down again, his face disappearing under his charcoal hat.

“That man,” Crowley says, nodding towards him. “Tell me what you feel.”

“I simply couldn’t,” Aziraphale sputters. “That’s an invasion of privacy! We’re not supposed to go digging into someone’s aura -”

“ _Tell me_ , angel.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Oh, alright, but I want you to know that morally speaking, I heartily disapprove of this,” he says, and closes his eyes. Crowley can feel him reaching out, and the heavenly sensation itches at him. He turns away, looking back to the man on the bench.

“He feels nervous,” Aziraphale says slowly. “He’s waiting for someone and he thinks they know something about him. Something he’d rather not share.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says. “He’s waiting for me. His name is James Ackland, he’s with the SOE, same as I am. Think he might be sending intel to the Germans, but I’m not sure. There’s some stuff that doesn’t check out, but he doesn’t - _feel_ like a bad person, right? He’s done things, sure, but it’s regular-human guilt.”

“Not all of them are evil,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley scrunches his nose. “They’re human,” he mutters. “They can make anything sound rational if they try hard enough. They’d talk themselves into redemption if they could.”

“Wouldn’t everyone?” Aziraphale asks, as if it’s a foregone conclusion.

Crowley exhales. “No,” he says. “S’easier, sometimes. Not to be forgiven. Then you can do anything and just say, yeah, that’s just how I am, that’s just me. If you can’t be forgiven anyway, there’s not really a point in trying to be good, right? Already doomed anyway, so might as well. Sloth, that is.”

“That’s not what you do, though,” Aziraphale says, his eyebrows creased as if he’s thinking more than what he’s saying. Crowley doesn’t like it; Aziraphale turning this back on him is not what he wants. Crowley already knows he’ll never be forgiven; it’s different for humans. Their sloth doesn’t serve a purpose, since they’re full of the potential for redemption. They _could_ , if they wanted. Some just take the easier route.

“Nah,” Crowley mutters. “Sloth doesn’t work that way for demons. I know some demons like that, though. Just got struck down and never really bothered to get up. Vicious bunch, usually. But it’s not sloth, since it’s not like we would be forgiven if we just tried hard enough. So doing anything differently doesn’t matter. Anyway, humans can be like that with all sorts of things. They can think it’s too hard to change and just - not. Don’t take the new job, stay with the husband that makes you miserable, never move out of the town with the neighbours you hate. That’s sloth, for you.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, and looks troubled. “Do you remember Babel? That enormous Tower, and when the language divide happened, they all just - stopped. Even when they relearned the languages.”

“I remember.” Crowley’s looking at Ackland again. “I don’t think Ackland is much for sloth, either, though. Well. I’ve kept him waiting long enough, don’t you think? If he really is acting as a double spy, I’d better find out now. I can’t believe I didn’t _know_ before. So _stupid_.”

“Maybe it’s not him,” Aziraphale says. Crowley puts his hands in his own jacket. He hopes it won’t be Ackland, but the evidence is against him. It’d taken him ages to find even some sliver of proof.

“Maybe,” Crowley just says. “Guess I’ll see you around, angel.”

Aziraphale huffs and rearranges his scarf. “I rather thought you could come and visit me,” the angel says hopefully, pointedly not looking at him. “Tonight, if you want. I know rations are scarce, but I still have a lovely white wine lying around from before - 1899, if you must know, I picked it up in Hungary.”

Crowley wants to ask him why he was in Hungary. He’s rather wanted to ask all sorts of questions, really, the way they always have lapped up each other’s stories of humans and their odd nature. Maybe Aziraphale wants the same thing, and here he is, offering it up.

He already refused him once in 1941. He’d made a decision, then, for his own good and for Aziraphale’s.

“Yeah,” he says, hears the roughness of his own voice and coughs. “Yeah, sure. I’d like that. I’ll swing by yours.”

“Perfect!” Aziraphale says, and he beams, wringing his hands together. “Wonderful. I’ll see you tonight then. Erm - good luck with your associate. I really do rather hope it all works out for the best.”

“Me too,” Crowley says, and watches Aziraphale walk back to the crowd. The angel gives him a little wave, his expression far too cheerful, and exhales. Then he turns back to where Ackland is still waiting for him.

He strides towards him, into the visible eyeline. Ackland sits straighter, the newspaper immediately abandoned.

“Crowley,” he says. “You’re late.”

Crowley sniffs. “Fashionable, innit?” he asks lightly, and sits down on the bench, picking up the newspaper and pretending to read it. “Anything good in here, you think?”

Ackland eyes him. “I’d rather we discuss whatever you asked me here for. Why couldn’t we meet at headquarters for this meeting?”

“Because,” Crowley says, “you wouldn’t want me to. It’s best this conversation is had in - _private_ , Ackland. We _know_.”

“Know what?” Ackland says. He’s a good spy, but Crowley can see the subtle twitch of his hand, the tension in his lips. 

Crowley leans towards him. “We know,” he murmurs, “what you’re hiding.”

Ackland trembles, and Crowley can feel his thoughts turning. There is shame, embarrassment, and _envy_. That’s his sin, then. Ackland looks at others and _wants_ , and apparently he wants to destroy England in order to have it.

“I didn’t mean to,” Ackland says in a rush. “It’s not my fault, Crowley - Anthony, it’s not my fault, please. I can - resign, if you want, please. Don’t turn me in. They’d - they’d _kill_ me.”

Crowley eyes him. “That hardly seems my problem,” he says coldly.

“Please,” Ackland says, laying his hand on top of the newspaper so he has to lower it. His other hand grabs Crowley’s arm with a tight hold, the warmth of his fingers seeping through the material. “ _Please_. Aren’t you - Worthen told me, he had similar suspicions about you. We can - we can _look out_ for each other, you can trust me, I’m not - I’m not a bad person. I’m not, I’m not. I’ve always done the right thing!”

“I don’t care what Worthen does or does not think about me,” Crowley bites, and yanks his arm away from Ackland’s grip. “Are you going to come to SOE with me, or am I going to have to _drag_ you?”

Ackland crumples in on himself. He shakes his head, holding his hand in front of his mouth to regain his composure. “I’ll come,” he says quietly. “I’ll - yeah. I’ll come.”

Crowley rises and grabs Ackland’s shoulder. It’s time the whole charade ended.

~*~*~*~

“Everything about this is shit,” Crowley whines, one of his legs bent over Aziraphale’s couch and the other firmly on the ground, keeping him steady. He’s half-lying against the side of it, a pillow comfortably in his back. “Can you believe that? That they’d _do_ that? They’re bloody backwards, humanity, all of them. And then - I asked Worthen about it, and what’d he say? Nothing. I thought _he_ thought I was a sodding double spy, that’s what I thought, but no, he just thinks I’m a bloody _queer_.”

“I’m not sure you’re supposed to call them that,” Aziraphale says, and hiccups. He looks surprised at himself for that, and blinks. “I think they prefer to be called homosexuals.”

“What _ever_ ,” Crowley says. “I brought in a man for being homosexual today. Bloody Satan. He’s in a _cell_ , Aziraphale! Didn’t even sleep with anyone, just had the - the impulses, what will you, and they just - Hughes didn’t even blink! Said it was just as well! As if that’s jus’ as - jus’ as important as finding the bloody _traitor!_ ”

“Why did you - why’d you think he was the mole?” Aziraphale asks, sipping delicately of his wine and spilling most of it over himself. He doesn’t even seem to notice. Crowley groans.

“Ngk,” he says. “Nothing concrete. Jus’ - small stuff. Can’t really find any of the big stuff, is the issue, so they’re _good_. And I can’t even sense anything weird, so that’s - eugh. Let’s talk about something else. Any good miracles, lately?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, his eyes growing big. “Yes! A little girl - ill, you see, she’s very ill, and they can’t cure it, but they - oh. It’s not very happy, I’m afraid. I’m not allowed to heal her, technically, Gabriel’s - ever since the fourteenth century, they’ve been at me for healing, and it’s best not to - but - but my point - it’s.”

“Heaven sucks?” Crowley offers.

Aziraphale sends him a look. “ _No,_ ” he says strictly, and hiccups again, looking just as surprised as he did the first time. He leans forward conspiratorially, a devilish smile on his face. “I think I might have sped up the process of a cure.”

It’s a whisper, but not a very soft one. Crowley laughs, though, slapping his thigh for good measure and almost spills his own wine. He quickly takes a sip; there’s barely any keeping up with Aziraphale when he gets like this.

“Tha’sss a good one,” he says. “Oh, oh, you’re a sneaky one, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale smiles, pleased. “And you?” he says.

“Hmm,” groans Crowley. “Not many miracles, these days. SOE’s busy, and I’m busy - ergh.”

“Won’t that get you into trouble?” Aziraphale asks, suddenly a lot more worried. He leans even more forward, putting down his glass. “You’ve been - concerned, I know, about Hell, and I don’t want to - they’re not going to take you off Earth, do you think?”

“Nah,” Crowley says. “Hell thinks I’m doing amazing. Wonderful. Wrote my name to a few acts of war, you see, easy enough. As long as the jobs get done, s’not really an issue.”

“So you’re not in danger?” Aziraphale reiterates.

Crowley glares. “Why?” he demands, and takes another sip as he slouches down the couch. Drinking is really _hard_ , when you’re almost lying down. The humans should figure something out for that. He gives them about fifty years to solve that problem. Straws? That’s a thought.

“You _know_ why,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley remembers that he just asked a question.

“Dunno, really,” he says. “You said _fraternise_ , angel, not me. _Fraternise_. Doesn’t seem like you’d care what Hell would do to me for _fraternising_ with an angel. Not if you’re refusing to give me the holy water, anyway.”

Aziraphale sniffs and withdraws. “You’re going to _destroy_ yourself, and you’re making me watch,” he says primly. “That’s not fair, Crowley, you can’t ask me to do that!”

“I’m a _demon_ , ‘m not supposed to be fair,” Crowley growls, and his head aches, so he puts a hand over his eyes and sighs. The lamp is bright, and he’s so used to wearing sunglasses that he almost forgot what unfiltered light is like against his eyes. 

“Don’t ask me again,” Aziraphale says, and he doesn’t sound as drunk now. “Please, Crowley. You can’t ask me again.”

Crowley puts down his drink and burrows himself further into the couch. It smells of old paper and of Aziraphale. “I won’t,” he mutters. “Let’s just - not discuss it again. M’kay? It’s fine. It’s fine like this, it’s - I don’t need it anyway, not right now. Let’s drop it.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, relief palpable in his voice. “Crowley, are you -”

Crowley’s already fallen asleep before he can hear the end of that sentence.

~*~*~*~

June 13th, 1944

After the Blitz, Crowley had somehow thought the worst was over for London. Despite the rations and the news of dead soldiers, all those English forgotten sons who will never see home again, he’d thought - 

He knows what he’d thought. He’d been wrong.

“It’s not the end, Anthony,” Worthen says, joining him outside and handing him a cup of tea. “Here, that’s for you. Anne made it ‘specially for you. Little bit of sugar.”

“That’s being rationed,” Crowley replies absent-mindedly, “shouldn’t put it in my tea, you moron.”

“We’ll do whatever we like,” Worthen says. “You’ve been out of sorts all day. There wasn’t - anyone you know, was it? You weren’t this despondent even during the Blitz.”

“We’re winning,” Crowley bites, and holds his hands around the warm cup. Despite it being summer, the night is cold and he’s not wearing a coat. Worthen has barely anything of a yard, and yet Crowley finds himself sitting in it, refusing to leave the garden. “We’re winning, and what do they do? They’re bombing London again.”

“Yeah,” Worthen says, and crouches next to him. “But we can fight back. The V-1 bombs are just another way of trying to get back their edge, but Germany’s losing. They are, this just goes to show that we’re intimidating them. That they’re stuck.”

“And how many people will they kill?” Crowley says, and takes a first sip. The tea is still scalding hot, but he likes the way the heat scorches through his throat. He’s a demon; it’s not as if it will bother him. 

Worthen shrugs. “Eight in the first blast today,” he says quietly. “But there’ll be a way to fight back. We always find one.”

Crowley shivers, his skin betraying him. He thinks about a bookshop in Soho that never gets cold, even without electricity. He doesn’t think Aziraphale has realised he needs electricity in order to have light, or to use his telephone, and therefore he doesn’t use it. One day, Crowley will get around to explaining it to him.

“How could we _not know?_ ” Crowley asks. “All those tips, all that central intelligence. And we didn’t know. _How_ could we _not_ know?”

“That’s the way it works,” Worthen says sagely. As if Crowley doesn’t know how wars work. Of course he knows that’s how it works - that doesn’t make it _better_.

Crowley huffs, leans back in his chair. He doesn’t even know why he’s here. When the news hit, the V-1 bomb hitting London and killing citizens, Germany’s desperate attempt to get back in a game they’re rapidly losing, he’d been in the head office. He’s not fully sure what he’d done, but he’d been cursing, he thinks, and Worthen had pulled him away.

Maybe he should resign. Or just disappear; he’s had this identity for a measly six years now, and he can keep it for a few more, but humans are going to notice soon. Six years doesn’t do that much to a human adult, really, but ten years will be noticed, and then it’ll be fifteen years, and Crowley’s going to have to craft something new out of himself.

It’s a shame. He likes Anthony J. Crowley, spy for the Crown, serving something other than himself and his infernal fires. Anthony J. Crowley is a man who gets things done, whose name is known by Nazis and respected by his fellow spies, someone who doesn’t shy away from causing chaos in Germany and putting an end to a war. Anthony J. Crowley wouldn’t resign, so close to the end. He’d see it through, no matter how frustrated he gets.

Crowley’s not going to leave. He knew this before he even really contemplated leaving in the first place; it’s just not what he _does_. He finds these causes, and he sticks with them. Always been like that, even at the very beginning. 

“The war will end soon,” he says quietly, and tightens the hold on the cup. With an unnoticeable miracle, he heats it back up again and gulps it down. “Then it’ll be all over. The unnecessary deaths, the bombs in the streets. It’ll be over soon, but for now, they’ll be sending bombs our way.”

“It will be over soon,” Worthen repeats. “I hope you’re right. I hope you’re really right, this time.”

“Give it a year,” Crowley says, and puts all of his will into the words. He’s only a minor demon, really, and his miracles can’t stretch through humanity. Not even Satan would be able to stop the war, with all his power. And as for God - well, She might, but She never would. Why should She?

Nonetheless, he feels the prickle of a miracle at his fingertips as he speaks. He’s not sure what it’ll do, really, and the war’s getting to an end anyway, so it won’t matter. A year, a year - he can do this for one more year. What’s one year in five thousand, nine hundred and forty eight? Barely anything, that’s what.

He feels a bit better for it, though.

~*~*~*~

November 24th, 1944

They are leaning against the fence in St James Park, looking out over the water, and Aziraphale’s face is lit up with delight, listening to Crowley telling all kinds of spy stories that might be only ten percent his own experiences and ninety percent stories he’s picked up from other places. It doesn’t matter, though; Aziraphale’s hiding his lips behind a loosely-curled first, as if to hide that he’s amused, his skin wrinkling with laughter lines and his eyes shining.

At the moment, Crowley’s telling a story that he supposedly lived through in France, involving a chicken, two very confused Nazi, and his favourite pair of sunglasses. It might be a bit exaggerated, but what does it really matter? Parts of his job were just as hilarious in different ways, and Crowley’s a demon, and technically, lying to an angel is part of the description.

The spying job is very different than it was at first, with fewer funny stories and subterfuge and more tasks focused on rebuilding Europe and dealing with Germany in the final stages of this bloody war. Crowley doesn’t so much spread chaos towards Germany anymore; they’ve become rather adept at it themselves. It reminds him of the earlier days, when the world was still young and humans still the same. At one point, they just stop - needing any divine or infernal intervention. They’ll do bad, and they’ll do good, and it’ll be all on their own.

And in this case, Germany has rather destroyed itself in the process. Hitler’s empire has lasted for a little over a decade, and doing enough damage in that time period, but on the overall, Crowley’s not _unhappy_. It’s ending, and that makes everything better.

One by one, Nazis are disappearing from the countries they’ve destroyed. All of Belgium has been retaken this month, France was liberated in the summer. Slowly, they can start rebuilding. A little more time, Crowley is confident, and the war will be officially over. He can’t _wait_. He’ll quit with the actual human job and focus some time on other things again; the SOE has taken so much of his time the last few years, nobody will mind if he lays low for a couple of years.

The story ends with a banger, like Crowley’s stories always do, and Aziraphale’s chuckles die down as they look at the ducks. It’s almost enough to forget they stood here years earlier, Aziraphale storming off in anger. Crowley is very careful not to mention holy water again; with the positive feedback from Hell, he can wait a few years. If Aziraphale hasn’t changed his mind by then - and if he knows Aziraphale, he won’t - he can get it on his own in a decade or so. Rob a church, that’s properly demonic.

“So,” Aziraphale says, and absently throws a few crumbs of bread at the ducks. They fight each other over it, and Crowley waves a hand. The crumbs spread, so more ducks get involved in the battle. “When the war is over. What do you think you’re going to do?”

“Dunno,” Crowley mumbles, and puts his hands in his pockets. “Retire from the SOE, at the very least, before people are starting to ask questions. Could find a new apartment, I s’pose. Maybe Mayfair, this time. Kensington is getting a bit old for me, I don’t think I’ve lived elsewhere in a century.”

Although he’d slept for the better part of that century.

“Somewhere with parking space, for your car,” Aziraphale offers.

Crowley looks at him. “As if there won’t be space whenever I want there to be one, angel,” he says, and sighs, leaning fully against the rails as the ducks quack. “Someplace with a big bathroom. I’ve missed taking luxurious baths. You remember the bathhouses in Rome? They had the right idea, that lot.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale says. “I know of some buildings that are on sale in Soho. I can’t say much for Mayfair, however.”

“Ngk,” Crowley says, and thinks about living only a five minutes’ walk away from Aziraphale. “Best not. I’m not sure one neighbourhood can deal with both hellish and heavenly influences on a daily basis. Mayfair isn’t too far out, in any case - I’ll easily make that in ten, fifteen minutes in the Bentley.”

Aziraphale tuts. “Only because you drive like a - a -”

“Demon?” Crowley offers, grinning. 

“Exactly,” Aziraphale says, shaking his head, but when he looks over towards Crowley, there’s a smile tugging at his lips. 

Crowley opens his mouth to say something - he hasn’t thought about what, exactly, but it might be a jab about Aziraphale’s distaste for speed, or cars in general, or even the modern age. It might even be something kinder, but he won’t ever find out what he’ll say, because he’s interrupted.

“Crowley!”

He turns, his sleeve brushing against Aziraphale’s tartan sleeve as he does so. He hadn’t realized they were standing so close together, and he automatically takes a step to the side.

“Ackland,” he says, unable to stop the surprise from leaking into his voice. James Ackland offers a wry smile, rubbing his own sleeve as his eyes flit between Crowley and Aziraphale, something settling.

“Sorry to disturb your conversation,” Ackland says. “I just - I saw you standing there, and I wanted to say hello.”

“Erm, hi,” Crowley says, and feels a bit awkward. It’s a new feelings; he’s never really felt awkward with _humans_ , but there’s something to be said for accidentally locking up someone for being gay instead of being a double agent. It hadn’t taken much of a miracle to get Ackland out of that prison cell and off all charges, but he hadn’t come back to SOE, and Crowley had kind of thought that he’d never see him again.

Ackland just smiles tightly. “I was unaware you had friends,” he says, nodding towards Aziraphale. “Nice to meet you, Mr -”

He leaves the question hanging, and Aziraphale starts, before he smiles pleasantly. “Mr Fell,” he says, and Crowley rolls his eyes at the angel’s inability to come up with a first name. Aziraphale is still not convinced he needs one. He hadn’t taken a last name for ages, until the necessity of time had pushed him into it. Even then, he hadn’t been _original_ with it.

“Mr Fell,” Ackland says, and shakes Aziraphale’s hand. “I’m James Ackland, a former - colleague, I should say, of Mr Crowley.”

“How delightful,” Aziraphale says, as if he hadn’t helped Crowley spy on Ackland the day he’d been thrown into a cell. “He’s mentioned you before, I think.”

Now it’s Ackland’s turn to be surprised as he lets go of Aziraphale’s hand. “He has?”

“Oh, I heard of the whole debacle,” Aziraphale says brightly. “Crowley felt absolutely terrible about the mix-up. I’m glad you managed to get out of the - erm, situation.”

“I didn’t feel terrible,” Crowley mutters, but it’s half-hearted at best. 

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley makes a face at him.

Ackland blinks. “Right,” he says. “Not that it’s much of my business anymore, but, did you ever find the right guy?” He’s apparently come to the conclusion that Aziraphale knows enough that he can speak freely about it. He’s not wrong; his instincts as a spy are still spot-on, and now Crowley does feel a bit guilty about being the reason Ackland’s out of a job in the SOE. Not that he’ll admit it.

“No,” Crowley has to admit. “Trail went dead.”

Ackland hums. “I suppose it isn’t very important anymore, at any rate,” he says. “There’s not many spies left, are there? So there won’t be any new trails to follow. That’s the most important thing.”

Crowley can feel Aziraphale brightening at that. “A very good outlook on life,” the angel says. “Very admirable, indeed.”

“Still wish I’d found him,” Crowley huffs out. 

Ackland smiles. “Just came over to say hi, really,” he repeats, and his smile becomes a bit more knowing when he glances between the two of them again. “It’s good to see you, Crowley. And it’s nice to have met you, Mr Fell. Bye, now.”

“I hope you have a good day,” Aziraphale says, a little more firmly than he has to, and something prickles Crowley’s senses. He’s sure that Ackland’s going to have a good day whether he wants to or not. Aziraphale’s blessings are nothing if not persistent.

“Bye,” Crowley says. “Erm. See you around.”

Ackland leaves, walking back to where another man is waiting for him. Crowley doesn’t look after them, but he knows. Could be friends, he supposes, or even brothers, or something else entirely, but he’s good at telling these things.

He turns back to Aziraphale, who is looking at him in return. The sunlight hits his eyes just right, the greyish blue open and honest, and Crowley looks back to the park.

“It’s a sad thing,” Aziraphale says after a few moments, “that he’ll have to hide his love. That he can’t openly celebrate it, like others can. That humans still can’t accept that love comes in all kinds of forms, and how much they are hurting themselves in forbidding parts of it.”

Crowley holds tightly to the fence, his fingers going white with it. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe in the future.”

“Maybe in the future,” Aziraphale repeats quietly.

~*~*~*~

February 2nd, 1945

When he finds out, it’s entirely by accident. The reason he finds out is because he’s sitting in an office, nearly abandoned except for him, Worthen and Johnson, and somewhere in his office is Albert Hughes, who almost always stays late. He’s sitting in an office, and he’s doing the work he wouldn’t be doing in Hell, and he’s only doing it _here_ because he’s feeling nostalgic. He won’t be at 64 Baker Street in a year’s time, and somehow, despite how much he’s hated the war, it’s a better headquarters than Hell is. 

He still doesn’t consider any of his coworkers his friends, really. But they get each other coffee sometimes, and he’s made jokes and gotten jokes made about in return, and fine, sometimes he’s used a miracle on one or two of them. They’re familiar in the way that Hell is, and they’re harmless in the way that Hell isn’t.

And it’s a bit ironic, nostalgia being the reason he finds out. He’s doing paperwork, which he’s usually been able to pawn off with tiny miracles, looking over their old files, just reading some old notes of the people he’s interviewed, the lies he’s passed other spies to tell Germany, the grey and unclear pictures of suspects.

There’s a file on Kleinschmidt, and Aziraphale’s little stunt is in there too, and the only reason Crowley is reminiscing over it is because he can probably use it to poke fun at Aziraphale later. The file is exactly as it should be; Kleinschmidt’s death is added in with Worthen’s neat scribbles, as well as the vague circumstances of Crowley’s involvement. There is a bit more about Aziraphale at the back, and Crowley flips the pages with a grin. There’s a picture of Aziraphale’s bookshop included, the bricks and windows more familiar than home to Crowley.

When his finger smudges the front door in the picture, he stills.

On the front door, he can see the vague outline of a wreath. It’s not something you easily see unless you’re looking at the picture very carefully, and even then, it’s not normally significant. Worthen may not even have noticed, but Crowley’s heartbeat picks up.

He rises, takes the file with him, and throws it down at Worthen’s desk.

Worthen looks up at him, eyebrows raised. “Your friend’s bookshop?” he says dryly, and browses through the file quickly. “With all the Nazi so conspicuously dead? Are you reminiscing, Anthony?”

“I was,” Crowley says, and leans forward, peeking over the rim of his glasses. Worthen has seen his eyes before, but now he frowns, and his chair scrapes the floor loudly. 

“What?” Worthen says, and Johnson is looking at them from his own desk. Crowley doesn’t care; rage is building in him, an anger he’s been feeling only distantly for quite some time, and something else that’s been brewing in him since his Fall. Betrayal is scorching all over his body, and he is taking great care not to slip over his sonorants.

“Why,” he bites out, “do you have a picture from - what is it? Late 1939? Early 1940? Kleinschmidt didn’t make a deal with him until February. You couldn’t have known. You said you knew about it the day _before_ , in _March_.”

Worthen peers towards where Crowley is pointing, squinting. Then he laughs, abruptly, a bit like a dog’s bark. “Is that what you’re basing this on?” he says incredulously, and leans back. “A wreath? Doesn’t your friend normally have wreaths hanging on his door? He seems the type, you know.”

“Oh, he is the type,” Crowley says. “But you see, he’s also very, _very_ fond of Christmas. And while he’ll put out a normal wreath on any day, all day, this is still a _Christmas wreath_. And he would chastise me for putting pine branches in a normal wreath if I’d been the type. You know what he’d say? He’d say it’s _improper_. And that’s also why he wouldn’t leave one hanging until February.”

Worthen looks at him, crossing his arms. “What do you want to say?” he asks, and he just sounds weary. 

“You’re the mole,” Crowley says, and when Worthen doesn’t say anything, he cackles out a laugh, looking at the ceiling.

How could he not have noticed? 

“What?” Johnson says, rising from his chair.

“Of course,” Crowley says, and smashes the desk. He can feel the infernal energy rising around him; he doesn’t care. Worthen would’ve had Aziraphale discorporated, and Crowley wouldn’t have made up with him. Aziraphale would be in Heaven, and Crowley would still be here. “It’s so bloody obvious, isn’t it? The German hide-outs, the once we didn’t actually know about but you had anyway? You _almost-timely_ rescue, and your slow work on the German spy network. The way it’d been growing without much resistance, and we thought they were just _that much smarter_. Fuck, even your _gossiping_ to Ackland about me and whatever else.”

“I’m not a mole,” Worthen says.

“Anthony.”

He hadn’t noticed Johnson had gone to get Hughes. Both men stand in the doorway, and Crowley stretches himself out, away from Worthen. Hughes’ gaze is knowing, intent, and Crowley drops his infernal aura. This is how it works, isn’t it? These things, they’re never going to end well. 

“You knew,” he says, and shakes his head. He pushes up his sunglasses, walks away, leaning against his own desk.

“He turned,” Hughes says. “One of the first. He came to get you, didn’t he? He’s proved himself since then. Worthen has been a huge assistance to a great many operations.”

Crowley sneers. “I don’t fucking care,” he says. 

“There’s a future for you here,” Hughes hurries to say, taking two steps towards him, holding up his hand as if he’s trying to pet a wild animal. Crowley is almost tempted to show him his true form, turn into a snake and hiss at him, terrify them all into submission. 

The bitterness rises to his throat, and it comes out as a humourless laugh. “Oh, there’s really not,” he says. With a pat to his old desk, he walks out. A few months earlier than planned, but that’s fine. What’s a few months on six thousand years, really?

He’d thought he’d feel more victorious, walking out of 64 Baker Street for the final time. It doesn’t feel very monumental, but it never does, really. That’s just life for you. Crowley sighs, turns back one time. The weather is greyish, like it always is in London, and there’s people hurrying by, newspapers in one hand and umbrella in the other, ready for the rain when it comes.

“Anthony!” Henry Worthen comes running after him. Crowley stops and wouldn’t be able to say why. The Bentley is only two paces away, ready to take him away from this part of this century, and here he is on the edge.

“What,” he says flatly.

Worthen stops in his tracks. He seems young, now, although he’s not really by human standards. “You have every right to be upset,” he says, putting up his hands in apology. “What I did, that’s - there’s a reason I don’t do it anymore. I saw it was wrong, and I turned. I was one of the first, you heard Hughes. I’ve saved you, and I’ve worked with you - I haven’t even turned you in for whatever’s going on between you and Mr Fell -”

“Oh, so you’re playing on your virtues now, are you,” Crowley says, and takes a step closer. “There’s nothing you can turn me in _for_ , can you now, since there’s nothing going on, and I’ve only ever been trying to - to -”

What, really? Do _good?_ Not really his scene, is it? He’s been trying to do what’s best for him, and what’s best for him involves fewer humans dying. Crowley turns away, takes the two paces and opens the Bentley’s door. 

“You were my friend,” Worthen says, hopelessly. “I’d never really had any friends, but you were my friend.”

“Nah,” Crowley says. “I don’t have friends.”

Crowley steps into the Bentley, and drives away, and will never see any of them again.

~*~*~*~

May 8th, 1945

The war is over, and people are out on the streets to celebrate.

Crowley is packing, in a way. It’s not so much packing as assessing his lifestyle habits; he makes a point of staying up with the times, and he banishes all the things that belong too far in the past. Music tracks from the ‘30s and early ‘40s that have fallen out with the times, couches and tables that haven’t been sold for nearly ten years; Crowley thoughtfully touches them with his index finger and they disappear into the nothing.

Somewhere, in Mayfair, a new apartment is taking shape. A more modern couch is sitting there, right in front of a more modern sort of television. The apartment is larger than it would look like on the outside, with some extra rooms that it didn’t have before. Crowley hasn’t seen it yet, but he’s absolutely sure it’s going to be perfect, because he won’t take anything else.

“Right,” he says, looking outside of his apartment in Kensington for the last time. Out on the streets, he can hear gleeful shouting, sees people dancing in the street. So much tragedy, so much _loss_. A woman stands across the street, crying into someone else's shoulder, grasping her tightly. 

They’ll bounce back. Hopefully, they’ll learn from it. Crowley is looking forward to seeing what they’re going to be doing with the newfound freedom, the air of a new era, the knowledge of knowing what humanity is capable of.

It’s probably going to be wonderfully inventive and both very heavenly and hellishly. It usually is. Humans are that way, really, a bit of both sides swirling in them, making up a grey. 

She’d made them in Her image, hadn’t She? Crowley marvels at it, leaning against the window with his elbows, pressing his nose against the glass. Sometimes, looking at the humans, he just doesn’t understand how they do it. Have the capacity of both so much good and so much evil at the same time. They hadn’t been _made_ for one thing or the other, and even if they’ve made themselves, they can always _change_. 

They can work for one side, and then just change their mind. And they won’t even be punished for it. Even if they have killed for it. Even if it could have led to the death of an angel. Even if Crowley feels white-hot anger, tamed by the incomprehensible sense of _jealousy_. That they’re allowed to choose in freedom, and he’s still here.

The phone rings. Crowley leans away from the window. There’s a smudge of his nose on the window, and he runs over it with his thumb. He just shakes his head at it, going to pick it up in the living room.

“This is Crowley,” he says absentmindedly, wondering if humanity’s going to do something about the phones next. They’re useful, but the cord is sometimes really something of a limitation.

“ _Bad evening_ ,” the voice on the other side says. “ _This is Jill from the office of Dagon, Master of Torments. I’m calling about a new assignment?_ ”

“That’s odd,” Crowley says, wrinkling his nose. “I usually don’t get phone calls from _Dagon_ ’s office, you see.”

“ _You were already on my calling list. I have some complaints from DR I need to discuss for you -_ ”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, drawing out the vowel. “Just get on with it, Jill.”

There’s a moment of silence, and a shuffling of paper. Crowley feels for the demon, somewhat; a lot of the younger demons got saddled with filing paperwork, making sure all the damned souls got in the right place, that kind of stuff. At least he landed the whole gig with Eve and the apple when he did. Might’ve gotten stuck down there in Hell, doing all sorts of menial tasks, if he hadn’t.

“ _Here it is,_ ” Jill says. “ _There’s a woman in Istanbul, Ajda Vismala. We want you to corrupt her soul; she has a vision in Turkey that might interfere with our Master’s causes_.”

“Ah,” Crowley mutters. “One-on-one corruption then, just like the days of old. One day, you’re sinking battleships and commandeering armies, next day, you’re talking into the ear of one woman.”

“ _There’s no war anymore,_ ” Jill says, and she sounds a bit petulant. “ _All our work is going to be scaled down a bit, for some time._ ”

Crowley sniffs, twirls a finger around the telephone cord as he smiles to himself. “Didn’t say it’s a bad thing,” he says. “Whispering into one woman’s ear is kind of my specialty, some would say. Big things have happened to humanity, all because of the whispers in one woman’s ear. Shouldn’t mock that sort of thing, I s’pose. Erm, when am I expected to be in Istanbul?”

“ _Five days_ ,” Jill says. “ _Now, about those complaints -_ ”

“See you later, Jill,” Crowley says, and hangs up.

Well. Turns out he’ll have to live in his brand-new apartment some other time. It doesn’t really matter, though; getting away from London for a bit might not be the worst thing. It’ll give him some time to deal with renewing his paperwork for a newer version of Anthony J. Crowley, after he’s back.

Sue him, he likes the name. Besides, Aziraphale will have a stroke if he changes things too quickly. Better not upset the angel again.

The cheering from outside continues. He taps the telephone for a few seconds, before picking it up again. This time, he dials another number, one he knows by heart.

It rings four times.

“ _A.Z. Fell and Co,_ ” a familiar prim voice comes, and Crowley relaxes, leaning against the desk. “ _How may I help you?_ ”

“Watch out, angel,” Crowley says, and he can’t help but grin, “sound too nice on the phone and humans may actually think you’re willing to sell books to them.”

“ _Crowley!_ ” Aziraphale says, a bit breathless. Crowley can’t say why he’s pleased, but he is. “ _Such a delightful surprise! You’ve heard about the war, of course. It’s finally all over! Maybe the whole rationing situation might lift soon, then. One can always hope._ ”

He hopes Aziraphale never changes. He never really has, truth to be told. Nearing six thousand years, and he’s still that angel, watching the humans, fretting over things that Crowley hasn’t ever heard angels fret over. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure they will, angel. Look, do you have time to meet up?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Aziraphale says immediately. “ _What do you propose, my dear boy?_ ”

Crowley tells him.

~*~*~*~

April 27th, 1949

Anthony J. Crowley, British citizen, born 21 October 1912. That’s what his new passport says, at least. It’ll last him a decent while; he’ll be able to use it for hopefully two decades at the very least. And otherwise, he’s only a miracle away from an update.

It’s good to be back in London. Turkey was nice and warm, but he has some bad memories from when Istanbul was still Constantinopel. The city’s changed since then, of course, and there hadn’t been angels around, which for most demons is usually a positive thing.

He’d missed it, a bit. The thwarting, of course. Maybe checking out new human inventions together, too. Constantinople always was so full of life and people; Crowley used to have a small home tucked away in its bustling streets, right across a marketplace with a woman who sold promefruits he’d had since leaving Eden. Maybe even better. He’d given an apple to the angel once; the juice had dribbled down his chin, splattering on the ground.

The first place he goes to, when his feet touch London’s familiar cobblestone streets, is Soho, a solid package wrapped under his left arm. The bookshop looks familiar as few things do, having stood there for the better part of two hundred and fifty years. Crowley wonders if either of them will ever leave London again; they’ve been stationed here for so many years now, comfortable in how a regular settlement grew into a bustling metropolis around them.

Maybe Aziraphale will always open up a bookshop in whatever place he finds next. The thought makes him uneasy. There should be no logical reason why Aziraphale can’t have other bookshops after this one; that this should be the _only_ one, not just the _first_ one.

The door creaks open. For once, it isn’t locked, and it says that the store is open, anyway, but Crowley is surprised. 

“Trying to sell some books, are you, angel?” he calls into the otherwise-empty store. Impossibly, it seems as if Aziraphale has added even more to his collection.

 _Greedy angel_ , a part of Crowley’s mind whispers, but it sounds fond. 

There’s no one here, so he takes some time walking around the bookshelves. He puts his package on Aziraphale’s register and touches the volumes that the angel spends so much of his time and energy restoring. There’s no clear categorisation of the novels; Bibles are stacked in between Shakespeare’s _Much Ado About Nothing_ and _The Picture of Dorian Gray_. A tattered collection of Christina Rossetti’s poems is wedged between Chaucer and a twelfth century manuscript of _Ysengrimus_.

He strokes the spine of _The Canterbury Tales_ , remembering Aziraphale’s delight upon first reading it. He owns a copy of it, too, which will be somewhere hidden in his Mayfair flat now. With all the dick jokes in it, he wagers it’s a proper thing for any demon to own.

“Crowley?”

He turns, his hand falling as he sees the white curls. Aziraphale’s face comes into view a second later, pleasant and familiar, leaning against his register as the door to the back room falls shut. His eyes fly from Crowley to the packaged book lying there, and he picks it up tenderly, the way Crowley only sees him with fragile paper and his favourite meals.

“ _Taaşuk-u Tal'at ve Fitnat_ ,” Crowley supplies as Aziraphale unwraps it, the novel seeming right at home in the angel’s hands. “Supposedly it’s the first real Turkish novel. Sounds like the kind of thing you should have in your bookshop, even if it’s not even a century old.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, turning it over in his hands. “ _The Love of Talat and Fitnat_. That - that is the correct translation, isn’t it? My Turkish is a bit rusty. I haven’t been there in - oh, centuries? You were there, I think.”

“It’s been awhile, yeah,” Crowley answers, and remembers the exact date down to the hour. “Anyway, it’s just a coming-home present.”

Aziraphale smiles, puts down the book, and strides closer to him. “I think it’s the custom that a present is given to the one who came back,” he says, “not the one who stayed.”

Crowley hums. “Truly demonic, isn’t it, defying tradition like that?” he says lightly. “Well, I’ll be off. A great many things to do. Not many people to tempt on that ship, I’ll have you know, and I’ll admit my heart wasn’t much in it anyway. I should check out Mayfair. See if my apartment is still to my liking.”

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale says, stringing his fingers together in front of him. “I’m - it’s good to see you, Crowley. You shall have to tell me all about Constantinople next time you come over.”

“ _Istanbul_ , angel, it’s Istanbul now,” Crowley says wearily.

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale says undisturbed. Crowley has a trickling suspicion the angel knew he’d respond like that. “And where you got the book, of course.”

Crowley smiles. When they do meet up, Crowley will tell all of that, and the things he’s seen humans do, and not drop a word about the assignment he was sent to do except, because neither of them like to be reminded of that. Aziraphale will tell him about his new collection, and rude humans who came in to look at his books, and maybe a bit about the aftermath of the war in London; the restrictions, the men coming back home, the end of rationing.

“Could I,” Crowley finds himself saying, “tempt you to a quick lunch before I go back home?”

Aziraphale brightens, but tightens the hold on the book. It’s going to be an easy one, then; he needs to ask only one more time, and the angel will follow.

“I couldn’t possibly -” Aziraphale starts, and Crowley grins. He’s known this dance for a thousand years.

“Just a quick bite,” Crowley insists. “I haven’t been here since we had rations, you know. And I heard there’s an awfully good new restaurant in Mayfair -”

He’d heard no such thing, but Aziraphale straightens nonetheless and puts down his newly-acquired _Taaşuk-u Tal'at ve Fitnat_.

“Well then,” the angel says. “Just to make sure you’re not planning anything devious on the way, certainly. And - hmm. Do they do Italian dishes, this new restaurant you were thinking of? I’m craving risotto, I think.”

“I’m sure they do, angel,” Crowley says, and goes to hold open the door for him. Aziraphale hums in pleasant surprise, taking his hat and coat off the rack.

They will have risotto, and also a good sun-dried tomato and mozzarella arancini. Crowley will take two bites, play with it on his plate a bit, and then pass it on to Aziraphale, who all too happily will finish it for him. Crowley will tell him all about Istanbul, and Aziraphale will relay all information on what’s been going on in London.

They will stay for far too long, have altogether too many glasses of red wine, and the server will be surprised to find the quality of the wine altogether much better than anything they actually have in stock. Crowley and Aziraphale will not remembering paying the bill, but the money will all be neatly there, with a decently-sized tip (Aziraphale) and an inconvenient and insincere complaint scrawled on the back of the bill (Crowley) that will actually lead to the cook improving the recipe and gaining more popularity (also Crowley, but _unintentionally_ ).

It’s only one day of many. It’s not important, in the big picture. History has passed them by, and they’ve lived through yet another milestone of humanity, and they’re both well aware and also not at all eager to talk about that kind of thing. Five thousand nine hundred and fifty-three years in, and they’re more interested about the small things today. Maybe tomorrow, or in a few weeks, they can discuss the war. They can discuss what Hell did, what Heaven thought, how they technically didn’t oppose their head offices. They won’t talk about what that means, though. They never do. 

But now, it’s just one of those days: a demon and an angel sit in a restaurant, and enjoy the world, and that’s all there is to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! the image of Crowley being a spy during the second world war just didn't leave me, and I really do love stories in a historical setting, so one thing led to another. there's already a second part of this series in the works, and it setting has already been referenced in this fic, too ;) that one will be from aziraphale's pov!
> 
> I'd love to hear from any and all of you, and if you have a fun idea for a specific historical (or biblical) event, I'm always open to ideas! :)
> 
> love, L.


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